The Golden Elixir
by Runescriptor
Summary: This is a time-travel fic featuring Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore. It takes place largely at the 19th century Hogwarts.
1. Default Chapter

The Golden Elixir  
  
Disclaimer: I assume everyone in the world is aware of who owns the Harry Potter characters (hint, it isn't me). I'm just borrowing them momentarily. There are a few OCs in this which are mine, as was dictated by plot needs. If anyone wishes to borrow any of them, just ask. To JKR and her lawyers: Please don't sue me--I am not making any money off this in any way, and I assure you, it would not be worth your time.  
  
Raison d'etre: I've been reading fan fiction for about three months now, and although there is a huge amount on one of my favourite characters, Severus Snape, there is much less on Albus Dumbledore, who probably heads my list of intriguing Potter people. So this is my attempt to rectify that for any other Albusphiles out there. Hope you like it. Eventually, this will be a pretty long fic comprising three books.  
  
Chapter One  
  
  
  
The dungeon smelled of potion supplies and ancient mildew. The myriad long- dead things in jars gave it a familiar feel to the tall wizard who drew his black cloak nervously around him as he carefully descended the last staircase. The hidden crypt below the main dungeon was his destination. It contained, he had been assured, the rarest of ingredients protected by powerful wards. It was a customary set-up, very similar to that of his own dungeons hundreds of miles away, yet there was something not quite right about it. The conspicuous lack of impediments in his search so far worried him, especially considering the value of some of the treasures he had seen upstairs. He paused slightly to run long fingered hands cautiously over the rough, scarred wood of the final door. A faint, but insistent voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him not to lift the iron latch, but he found himself doing it anyway, almost as if some other power was directing his movements. Which, he supposed, it was--Albus Dumbledore had been most specific in his instructions, and Severus Snape was not about to argue with his employer, benefactor and, occasionally, friend; especially not when that individual also happened to be one of the world's most powerful wizards.  
  
The door squeaked open with a loud protest from its seldom-used hinges, providing him with a narrow entrance. Inside was almost completely dark, save for a small blue light that was extinguished almost as soon as Snape glanced in its direction. Had it not been for the faint after effects on his vision, he might have been persuaded that he had imagined it. As it was . . .  
  
Moving with cat-like silence, Snape edged away from the door and the faint light from the stairs that no doubt lit his figure perfectly for an attack, while simultaneously liberating a small potion vial from the bandoleer of similar bottles he had slung across his chest. He felt his way along the slimy rocks behind him, wishing he had thought to use a sight adjustment charm before descending the stairs, but realising that even the faint whisper needed to do so now might betray his whereabouts. He listened carefully, but heard nothing from the other presence in the room. The small amount of light leaking in from the almost dark stairs was useless, illuminating nothing beyond a few feet of rough- hewn stones immediately surrounding the entrance. According to Albus' map, it was also the only exit.  
  
Snape quickly reviewed his options while continuing to listen for any trace of movement from his silent companion. He was still fairly near the door, and could possibly make a successful escape, especially considering the numerous rather nasty potions he had available to toss behind him into the room. He could, if he chose, turn the small, windowless cubicle into a roaring inferno or suck all the oxygen from the air; he could create fumes so toxic that breathing them for a split second would cause almost immediate death, or use a slight variation to prolong the agony for days-- although with the same end result. He could even simply cause the chamber to collapse upon itself, although that would entail the destruction of its priceless contents and constitute a direct violation of his orders.  
  
He sighed inwardly. He knew he should have brought back up, but it had seemed too risky; most of his colleagues evidenced an appalling lack of respect toward potion supplies. They insisted on acting as if everything was as innocuous as beetles' eyes or summer slugs, and would probably have handled the delicate and often volatile mixes Albus had assured him he would find in Zosimus' stores without a thought to the danger. He had ultimately decided to go alone, the lure of being first to gaze upon the master's private workrooms summoning in him an enthusiasm he had not felt for anything in decades.  
  
Appolonius Zosimus, one of the greatest potion masters ever born, had been almost a complete recluse, never showing his face at conferences nor deigning to reply either to queries from admirers or critics of his work. In the past two decades he had kept so much to himself that many had erroneously believed him dead, a supposed fact that had been reported in the press on no less than three separate occasions. The predictions had been somewhat premature; in fact, the master had died only shortly before Albus arrived in Snape's rooms--could it be only a few hours ago?--to inform him of the fact. Snape had known it must be something important for the Headmaster to disturb him at almost one in the morning; even though he knew Severus to be a chronic insomniac, he would never have intruded at such an odd time without good cause. But cause there had been.  
  
As he gazed sightlessly into the most private of all of the maze of storerooms beneath Zosimus' farmhouse, Snape's primary emotion was still excitement over the wonders that were almost certainly inches from his fingertips, despite his trepidation over the fact that someone had managed to arrive before him. Albus had unnecessarily reminded Snape that Zosimus, once his ally in the war against Grindelwald, had been the foremost brewer of battle potions in the world, before his experiments into even more dangerous areas consumed all of his time. Merlin only knew what stores of lethal weapons he still had in his massive potions vaults, incongruously located under an innocuous-looking farmhouse outside Vincennes, France. His supplies could be a great help to their side in the current war, or a catastrophe were they to fall into Voldemort's hands. Severus had been given a map of the labyrinthine storerooms and a list of what old passwords Albus could remember, along with orders to retrieve all that he could and to destroy the rest. He had increased his chances of getting out of Zosimus' vaults alive by bringing his own store of lethal concoctions, none of which he had so far had to employ. He should have known it had been too easy.  
  
The small room now erupted in a blinding flash of amethyst light, and he had the vague impression of a figure darting from the far left towards him before he was hit with the strongest stunning spell he had ever encountered. He was thrown back several feet before his head met the stone of the wall and he almost blacked out, only the shielding charm Albus had cast on him just before he disapparated allowed him to remain conscious. He was weak and disoriented, and the blazing light seared his eyes as he forced them open. Nonetheless, he managed to duck, rather inelegantly, under a large, heavy oak table before throwing the potion vial he still clasped in his hand. He could not see a target, but did not really need one with that particular brew; its fumes alone were enough to fell a charging elephant in seconds. He had, of course, taken the antidote before leaving Hogwarts, but the wave of heat from the exploded mixture and the heavy, if to him harmless, fumes increased the pounding in his skull.  
  
He relaxed slightly, knowing that no one could long survive contact with the mixture he had just hurled, but was given no time to reorient himself before a figure crashed into him, causing Severus to hit the floor rather heavily. With a barely human screech, his attacker began banging his already tender head against the unrelenting stones of the floor. He could get no clear view of him, only a vague impression of long dark hair and black robes, but just as he felt consciousness about to slip away, the assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Snape was unceremoniously hauled off the floor and thrown onto a nearby stool. He staggered, but did not fall, mainly because two amazingly small hands grasped the front of his robes and dragged him to within inches of an enraged pair of caramel coloured eyes. It took him a few seconds to realise that the furious individual bending over him was not only female, but familiar. A loud clatter from the direction of the stairs diverted her attention momentarily and Severus used the chance to pull free of her surprisingly strong grasp. He reached for his wand but didn't find it, however the witch's attention was no longer focused on him. "Bloody hell!" She jumped for the door just as a heavy iron studded barrier slammed down in front it with a resounding clang. They were sealed in.  
  
Severus regarded the woman, who stood staring in apparent shock at the barrier, with considerable irritation. He did not know her name, but had seen her several times recently either just entering or leaving a conference with Albus, so he assumed that she was some sort of ally whom the Headmaster was keeping under wraps for the present. There had been many unknown visitors at Hogwarts since the war began to escalate--some introduced to Snape if he happened across them during one of his night-time perambulations about the castle, but some not. She had definitely been in the latter category, with Albus making no attempt on the two occasions Snape had chanced upon her to acquaint them. However, an ally she obviously was, or Albus would certainly not have allowed her into Hogwarts, which was currently as protected as if it were already under the siege they were daily expecting. Her treatment of him he might therefore have been willing to excuse, especially as she had obviously been as surprised to see him as he was to encounter her. However, the tirade of abuse, some of which was phrased in language even Severus had rarely heard voiced--and certainly not by a petite young woman--which she unleashed on him did not improve his temper.  
  
He ignored her ranting long enough to scan the floor for and to retrieve his wand, which her assault had knocked from its usual receptacle in his left sleeve. "Oh do shut up," he finally interjected sourly. "Your stupid impetuosity in attacking me before you even ascertained my identity is what landed us in this predicament, and now I suppose it is up to me to get us out." Pointing his ebony wand at the portal, he prepared to mutter a simple blasting spell to remove the barrier, but found himself tackled again.  
  
"DON'T!" The obviously mental woman grappled with him, concentrating on trying to wrench the wand from his grasp. Once again Snape found himself on the floor beneath the attractive young female, and he did not like it any better the second time around.  
  
"Woman, get off me!" Her elbow connected with a particularly sensitive point in his anatomy and Snape howled, throwing her roughly to the side and leaping to his feet. It was absolutely imperative he get that damn door open before her insanity caused any damage to the room's contents. Once they were on the other side of the portal, he would be able to think more clearly, not to mention get a fresh breath of air as his previous potion still circulated in ominous grey/green clouds. Before she could stop him, Snape cast the strongest blasting spell he knew. He would have preferred to use another potion, but with the air already contaminated and considering the enclosed space, he didn't dare. The girl at his feet screamed, whether in fear or rage he wasn't sure, and cast some sort of golden net about the two of them as she jerked him back to the floor.  
  
At the same moment, all hell broke loose. It seemed for a few minutes as if the entire dungeon was collapsing around them. Bottles and vials flew off the shelves to crash against walls, floor and, in a few cases, ceiling. Multicoloured clouds quickly filled the room, obscuring any view, except for the streaks of red ricocheting off every available surface as if a hundred wizards were casting spells simultaneously. The golden web served as some type of shield, Snape realised faintly, as a stream of red slammed into his right thigh. An incomplete shield, it seemed, as his leg, although probably not broken, felt as if someone had attacked him with a large hammer. It was then that he understood that the room must be safeguarded in some way; its magically sealed surface was causing his own blasting spell to be reflected back on them from a dozen directions.  
  
The spell gradually grew fainter, and finally petered out entirely, albeit not before destroying virtually everything in the room. Not that that was immediately apparent. It took Snape several minutes of relative quiet, broken only by low, almost incoherent swearing from the woman at his side, before he dared to poke his rather long nose out from beneath the sturdy worktable which had, amazingly, remained largely intact. At first he saw nothing but swirling, noxious clouds; the multitude of smells that accompanied them made even the experienced potion master want to gag. He refrained, but took his time getting to his feet as the room swum sickeningly around him. He had already realised that his companion must have taken a similar regimen of antidotes to the one he had consumed, or she would almost certainly be dead now. Judging from her continued cursing, which had now grown slightly louder, she was still in the land of the living, although for how much longer Severus could not be sure. Prolonged exposure to any potent potion was inadvisable, even with the antidote, and he doubted if either of them had ingested something to compensate for all the hundreds of gases that were currently swimming about the room. They had to get out that door, and soon, unless Albus didn't mind the prospect of a potion's master with an extra head or two.  
  
"You bloody stupid IDIOT!" The witch had also scrambled to her feet and seemed almost beside herself with rage. "If we weren't probably already dead, I'd kill you!"  
  
Snape was preparing a suitably snarky reply when he was hit by a wave of nausea accompanied by pain unlike anything he had previously experienced-- enough to make cruciatus seem like child's play. His entire body seemed to be being literally ripped apart, almost on the cellular level; the various methods he had perfected over the years for dealing with physical discomfort were useless against this type of agony. As he fell to the floor, curling instinctively into a foetal position, darkness flooded over him; the last thing he heard before mercifully losing consciousness was his companion's screams.  
  
* * *  
  
Delaia came around under a large canopy of oak limbs that was doing a fair job of shading her from a bright, noon-day sun. She tried to sit up, but quickly discovered her mistake as she was immediate sick. She felt worse than she could ever remember, which was saying something considering a few of her past experiences. She kept her eyes closed until the earth stopped spinning and, when she made her second attempt to move into an upright position some time later, she managed it without repercussions.  
  
She was in a familiar enough spot--the glade outside her uncle's barn--but there was no barn there now, nor any other outbuildings, farmhouse, or anything familiar except the winding road leading toward town and the ancient apple grove in which she had played as a child. Delaia rubbed her eyes with a weary hand and wondered why, if the buildings had all been destroyed in whatever had happened to her, there was no evidence of that fact in view. No charred wood or tumbled stone marred the gentle tranquillity of the scene, no large hole was evident in the ground, and even the earth itself looked undisturbed, as if no huge series of dungeons had ever been carved within it.  
  
The only incongruous note to what would otherwise have been a perfect bucolic scene was the black lump moaning on the ground beside her. Delaia refrained---barely--from giving it a swift kick as she forced her protesting muscles to lever her to her feet. An almost preternaturally white hand snaked out from under the bundle of robes and grabbed her ankle. She sighed, but shook it off relatively gently. If the clues added up to what she thought they did, she was going to need the bastard, so hexing him into next week was probably not a good idea. Later, she promised herself. We'll sort this mess out, get back to where--or when--we're supposed to be, and then I'll hex him. A few really nasty curses floated across her mind and she smiled in anticipation. Her schedule arranged to her satisfaction, she bumped the lump with her shoe. "Get up. We need to talk."  
  
The lump moaned and failed to even manage a seated position, although it did roll over. Snape shielded his face from the glare of the sun with a hand, and groaned louder. Delaia sighed, and propped him against the trunk of the oak. "Are you lucid?" She tried peering into his eyes, but they were scrunched up against something--her presence, the light, who knew.  
  
"We have to get to Hogwarts. Can you apparate?"  
  
Snape's eyes finally opened and he fixed her with a scowl. "How the hell should I know? I . . . " He broke off in time to be sick.  
  
Well, at least he was alive. Delaia supposed that was something.  
  
"Here." She handed him a small vial of the stomach-soothing elixir her uncle had always insisted she carry in case apparating might be necessary. She had never learned to do it without queasiness.  
  
Snape sniffed it dubiously, but must have recognised it from the smell alone, and gulped it. In a few seconds, his colour, such as there was, began to return and he managed to struggle to his feet. As he looked around for the first time, Delaia could see no moment of recognition. Well, perhaps he was not as familiar with the area as she; in fact, he may never even have seen it in daylight, whereas she had spent most of her childhood here. It was also possible, she conceded, that Albus had not told him precisely what experiments her uncle had been working on lately. Oh lovely, she thought sourly, this should be fun.  
  
It took her the better part of an hour and a trip to the edge of Vincennes to convince him, and even then, his scepticism was almost palpable.  
  
"Well what else could this be, unless you think I somehow engineered the world's biggest illusion just to annoy you?" She was beginning to lose patience, never her strong suit anyway, as he continued to throw out objections. They had settled into a small café after transmogrifying their potion-stained robes into appropriate muggle street wear, although of another type than Delaia was used to wearing. She missed her jeans, and these corsets were murder. How had muggle women ever been persuaded that squeezing your inner organs into half the intended space was a smart idea?  
  
"I simply refuse to believe," the annoying creature opposite her was saying, "that Albus would countenance experiments of such a nature. Even time turners are closely regulated, and they only work over a 24-hour period. This is madness!"  
  
For once, Delaia found herself in agreement with the greasy bastard, as she had voiced the same concerns on several occasions, both to Albus and to her uncle. She was not about to admit as much to Snape, however, who annoyed her just by sitting there. He looked, she decided, no more appealing in 19th century attire than he had in his dusty robes. His face had returned to what she supposed was its normal, sallow colour, but the expression on it was forbidding in the extreme. She couldn't help but notice that, while the café owner had given her a pleasant smile of welcome, he had avoided their table ever since Snape had snarled at him, albeit in perfect French, about taking too long delivering their coffees.  
  
"I know it seems risky, but in case you haven't noticed, we've been losing the war," she hissed, hoping he would take the hint and lower his voice. With her luck, the beefy French farmhands at the next table would turn out to be English-speaking spies. Although, the logical part of her mind chimed in, who exactly would they be spying for? Voldemort hadn't even been born yet. For the first time since she woke up, she gave a genuine smile. Deciding after a minute that THAT thought deserved better, she laughed, and ordered some champagne from the startled café owner.  
  
"What the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
"I just realised. This is 1855." She waved the front page of a Parisian newspaper left by a previous patron under his nose. "Voldemort doesn't exist yet."  
  
Snape just stared at her for a moment, then began muttering something indistinct and agitatedly removing clothes. The barman sat the bottle Delaia had ordered on a nearby table and fled. She smilingly retrieved it. Whatever Snape's problem was--too hot, a sudden desire to go skinny- dipping, whatever--she didn't care. There was very little likely to interfere with the sudden feeling of pure joy that the thought of a Voldemort-free world induced. She poured herself a glass and watched as, God knew why, her companion sat staring at his left forearm in what looked like shock. She couldn't imagine what was wrong with him--his arm looked perfectly fine to her, if a bit pale.  
  
"Did you hurt yourself?"  
  
"No. I . . . " He looked up at her with something approaching wonder in his obsidian eyes. "You're telling the truth. This is 1855."  
  
Delaia rolled her eyes and drank more champagne. "Obviously," she remarked, waving her free hand around at the café patrons in their antique clothes, the horses and carriages passing on the road outside, and the general strangeness of everything. She was in a good enough mood to interject more diplomacy into her conversation than normal. "Look, I know this must all seem very strange to you, and yes, I know time-travel is prohibited for some very good reasons, but since we didn't PLAN this to happen, I don't think a cell in Azkaban awaits us on our return. If we manage to return that is, which is what we need to discuss."  
  
He looked around, apparently finally accepting the reality of the situation. "Not here."  
  
Delaia agreed, but took the champagne as Snape obliviated the café owner into believing they had already paid him. She had some francs on her--she usually carried an emergency stash of muggle money--but they were unlikely to be much good under the circumstances. They walked back along the road toward the now non-existent farmhouse, while she elucidated what was probably their best course of action.  
  
"I don't know why this worked," she explained to the silent man at her side who, for once, had evidently decided to listen rather than argue. "Albus and uncle have been trying to work out the particulars for long-distance time travel since Voldemort's initial rise sixteen years ago, but as far as I was aware, none of the experiments were successful. In fact, I'm not sure that this wasn't an accident--I mean, I have no idea what was floating around in that storeroom once you finished . . . ," she had been about to say destroying the place, but reconsidered at his renewed scowl and substituted "when we left" instead. "In any case, however it happened, we are here now. So, as I see it, we have to do two things. First," she held up a lace-covered finger, "get to uncle at Hogwarts--did you know he graduated from there?"  
  
"Yes, one of our more illustrious alumni. But if, as you say, he had not perfected the process even in our period, what good will talking to him in this one do?"  
  
"I said I'm not sure what happened, nor, to be honest, am I sure uncle told me everything. He and Albus used me as a more secure method of communicating than floo or owl would have been, but they weren't precisely forthcoming. If he had perfected it, I am not sure he would have told me. But, in any case, if anyone can send us back, it would be him."  
  
"And two?"  
  
"Two," Delaia smiled, "we have to talk to Albus, of course."  
  
"Dumbledore? But he isn't . . . " Snape trailed off as he suddenly realised the implications of her statement. It cheered Delaia somewhat to see that he wasn't stupid, at least. His actions in the dungeon had made her wonder a bit at Albus' trust in the man. As she watched the procession of thoughts, and emotions, that succeeded each other across his face now, however, she saw that he really did understand. "He must be only . . .," Snape did some swift arithmetic, "sixteen?"  
  
Delaia shrugged. "I don't know, something like that. I remember that he and uncle were in the same year at Hogwarts. Although he often said that there was a bit of rivalry between them as boys. Still," she smiled, her good mood allowing her to wave potential problems away with a flutter of her hand, "it'll work out. After all, we managed to do what Albus and uncle were planning all along, to go back so as to warn their previous selves about what was . . . is . . . coming, so it can be prevented."  
  
Snape had stopped in the road, apparently lost in thought as she spoke, to the point that she had to pull him out of the way of a carriage that was barrelling down on them from the direction of town. He hardly seemed to realise the danger from which she had just saved him as he turned to her with an inscrutable expression. "So what exactly are you proposing? That we simply walk up to them at Hogwarts, smile nicely, and inform them that we are from 150 years in the future and need to explain all about an evil wizard who hasn't been born yet but who they will both end up battling at the end of their lives?"  
  
Delaia frowned. "It sounds really ridiculous when you say it."  
  
"It is ridiculous! No one in his right mind would believe us. Albus and Zosimus must have worked out some type of proof to take back, something that would have made sense to their former selves, and at least have bought them a hearing. We," he reminded her in an unnecessarily nasty tone of voice, "have nothing. The term is about to start. They are going to have more on their minds just now than listening to idiocy from two strangers, one of whom is female."  
  
"And what," Delaia inquired bristling, "does THAT have to do with anything? Neither Albus nor uncle was a chauvinist."  
  
"Not in our time, perhaps. But may I remind you that this is NOT our time? Besides, females weren't even allowed at Hogwarts in 1855. It was a boy's only academy. The girls had their own school, in Lancashire I believe."  
  
"Well, who cares? I'm not planning to attend classes there, after all." She stopped suddenly, not at all liking the calculating expression on her companion's saturnine face.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Come on, we need to apparate. Are you up to it?"  
  
"Of course, but what . . . "  
  
"I'll explain when we get there."  
  
* * *  
  
Snape and Delaia apparated to a copse of trees just beyond Hogsmeade. Snape was relieved to find that it did not look all that different. Assuming that the school year had always begun September 1, and that the newspaper his annoying companion had practically assaulted him with in France was current, then they had three days before term started. It was not a great deal of time, but it would have to do. As quickly as he could, which was not as much so as he would have liked--did the woman EVER shut up?--he explained his plan and finally obtained her somewhat grudging acquiescence. When she left, looking faintly ill (he had drunk all her motion sickness potion, he remembered with no shame whatsoever) he transformed his muggle clothing back into robes and nonchalantly made his way to what in his day had been called the Shrieking Shack.  
  
In this period, it was a fairly nice house the owners of which were, fortunately for them considering his state of mind, not in. He broke through their childishly simple wards with no difficulty, and, after a brief search, found the passageway leading to Hogwarts. He shivered slightly just from being back in the tunnel where he had . . . would . . . come very close to being dinner for a werewolf. At the end of the passage, he crunched down in anticipation of the need to avoid the Whomping Willow's thrashing branches, then remembered as he came out instead through the side of a decorative fountain, that of course it had not yet been planted. Luckily, very little else had changed at Hogwarts, and he managed to find the hidden entrance to the dungeons, unknown to most students in his era and, judging by the thickness of the dust that overlaid everything, in this one as well, with no difficulty.  
  
Back in familiar territory, it took little time to make his way unseen, thanks to the absence of students, to the small antechamber to the deputy headmaster's office where the records were kept. The wards on the door gave him some problems--whoever had set these had been serious about it-- but he eventually managed to let himself in. Adjusting the records took only a few moments, and Snape finished his business without interruption. He had a close call on his way back to the dungeons, just barely managing to avoid a confrontation with Peeves, who had been terrorising Hogwarts for longer than he had realised, but a quick dodge into an empty classroom saved the day. Making his way back to the copse of trees in which he and Delaia had agreed to meet, he found the annoying woman lounging on what looked like enough luggage to outfit a whole train of students.  
  
She threw something at him that he only belated realised was an apple. Transfigured into a bat by his quick response, it screeched at him and flew off in the direction of Hogsmeade. Delaia gave him a sardonic look before inquiring, between bites of her own apple, if he would like to eat dinner or continue to play with it. He didn't deign to reply, instead beginning to sort through the jungle of bundles and boxes surrounding her.  
  
"What is all this?"  
  
The wretched girl had the temerity to bat her lashes at him. "You sent me shopping, remember? So I went shopping. By the way, here's your key."  
  
Pocketing the replacement she had apparently had no difficulty convincing the goblins at Gringotts to make for his family vault, he reflected that his ancestors' wealth had been considerably diminished by the look of things. He made a mental note not to let the creature near his vault in future.  
  
"They weren't happy; even with the passwords--they're big on having the appropriate key. They were going to owl someone, your grandfather maybe, for permission, but I managed to talk them out of it."  
  
He decided not to ask how, as her damned loquaciousness might keep them there all afternoon. "What did you buy?" They had specifically agreed on her obtaining the basics necessary for them to impersonate two Hogwarts students of this era for long enough to gain the trust of the current Albus Dumbledore and Appolonius Zosimus. They had further determined that she would use his family account for the necessary funds as he doubted, apparently correctly, that the passwords had changed in 900 years. He had not, however, authorised some of these purchases.  
  
"What is this?" He held up the most antiquated broom he had ever seen.  
  
"The latest model, believe it or not." She stuffed an éclair into her cheek, making her next words indistinct.  
  
"What?"  
  
She swallowed. "I said, you should have seen some of the others. The only thing I'D use them for is sweeping the floor."  
  
"Why," he asked wearily, "did you feel the need to buy a broom at all?"  
  
"I didn't." She tossed him a wrapped sandwich. "I bought two. Oh honestly, Sev, we'll be EXPECTED to fly, won't we? And what if we aren't in the same house? How would we explain sharing one? Anyway, what do you care? Your family has pots of money--I don't think I ever saw a vault that packed before. You're lucky I'm honest."  
  
Severus reflected bitterly that it was not necessary to steal outright when she had apparently bought out Diagon Alley. Something floated to the top of his mind that prevented him, probably luckily, from voicing that comment, however. "What did you call me?"  
  
The witch rolled her eyes and climbed to her feet, dusting pastry crumbs from her new and obviously expensive robes. "What do you expect me to call you? Professor Snape might be a little difficult to explain, under the circumstances. Oh, by the way, what pseudonyms did you fix up for us?"  
  
Severus decided to forgo a long argument over any number of things-- including the fact that his great-grandfather, if anything like the rest of the family, probably went over the regular statements from Gringotts with a fine-tooth comb and was certain to notice the rather sizeable sum that had been withdrawn to pay for their elaborate school supplies-- and simply answer her question. "We are, for the present, two brothers transferring in from Beauxbatons where I was a sixth year and you were first. Our names are Hieronymus and Valentin de Plannis--YOU," he said with some satisfaction, "are Valentin."  
  
"First year? I'm 19 years old, Snape!"  
  
"Well, I'm 36."  
  
"What does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"You can't expect ME to pretend to be a first year, can you?" He did not add that he vaguely remembered some rather unpalatable rumours of things that used to happen to first years in the old Hogwarts. He's have to watch out for her, assuming they were true.  
  
"Why does either of us have to be a first year? You could have altered the records any way you wanted--why aren't we BOTH sixth year?"  
  
"Because, you silly girl, it may not have occurred to you but it certainly did to me that someone may bother to actually check with Beauxbatons about us. I cannot go around altering records all over Europe--I had to choose names that will check out, should they need to do so. The de Plannis brothers did attend Beauxbatons and did leave this past year, although not to come to Hogwarts, obviously."  
  
Delaia was looking at him narrowly. He should have known he wouldn't be able to pull this off without some type of explanation. "And you would know this because?"  
  
He sighed. "Because I know where they did go." She arched an eyebrow, and Snape caved in. Oh, bugger it all, anyway. "Hieronymus went to Russia to study alchemy with my great-aunt Augusta. Valentin went with him," he decided not to mention why. Hopefully, that need never come up. "I know this because Hieronymus eventually became my grandfather."  
  
"So we're impersonating two of your relatives, even though you have OTHER relatives living in Britain right now? And this is better than just making up some names because?"  
  
He pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself that he needed to work with this creature for the present, and that her willing co-operation was probably better than simply putting her under Imperius until they got out of this. "The British Snapes had a long-running feud with the Russian branch of the family at this point. It was not resolved until after the revolution, when the Russian Snapes fled the country and took up residence in France, where they still reside. There is virtually no chance of them communicating until forced to do so some decades from now. No one at Beauxbatons was told where the boys were headed as my aunt had an . . .", extremely well-deserved, "rather unfortunate reputation for dabbling in the dark arts. As far as I can recall from family history, the children were simply withdrawn from the academy, no explanations offered. So, if any inquiries do happen to be made by anyone at Hogwarts, they should raise no concerns in France and cause us no problems here."  
  
Delaia looked less than convinced. However, she merely commented, "Let's hope you remember your family history, then." 


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two  
  
The next two days were spent attempting to perfect a glamour that would stand up to almost constant wear, yet be easy enough to maintain that it did not completely drain them of energy. They had only been partially successful, Delaia thought, surveying her reflection in the Three Broomsticks' guestroom mirror. Her disguise was convincing enough--she really did look like a normal, if somewhat tall, twelve year old boy--but it wavered if she kept it up more than six hours at a time, and utterly exhausted her after five. Snape could last somewhat longer, which did not improve her attitude; of course, all he had to do, she reflected bitterly, was to project a younger version of himself, a considerably easier task than maintaining a completely different figure. She turned from the mirror as he swept in, his black student robes looking little different from the ones he usually wore.  
  
"The Hogwart's Express is due in a few minutes. It will be easier if we are met at the station with everyone else." He surveyed her critically, but apparently she passed muster, for he merely told her to hurry up and left, presumably for his own room. Delaia neither knew nor cared what he was doing--two days of almost unrelieved Severus Snape combined with the stress of constructing the glamour had given her a pounding headache. Despite reminding herself repeatedly of the importance of the opportunity fate had given them, she couldn't help but secretly wish that her uncle's owl calling her back from Egypt, where she had been attempting to obtain some highly illegal potions supplies for him, had been lost on the way. If fate did insist on throwing her into this mess, however, the least it might have done was to give her a slightly less objectionable partner. Snape, she had discovered, did not improve with exposure.  
  
Delaia sighed, shrank her trunk to the size of a small book, and dropped it into her pocket. There was no point in postponing the inevitable, she supposed. Snape met her in the hallway and they walked in silence to the station. Neither of them, of course, had a licence to apparate in this time period, and they had already done enough to make the Ministry of Magic suspicious without attempting any more unnecessary infractions. They waited in the woods beyond the station until the train arrived and the resulting confusion allowed them to mix into the crowd without attracting notice. Delaia and Severus, as a second and seventh year student respectively, were able to avoid the ride in tiny boats across a rough- looking lake required of the first years. For her part, however, Delaia found the horseless carriages that conveyed the older students to the school little better; they smelled musty and were uncomfortable. Severus had warned her about them, along with imparting a few other grudging slivers of information, but only after she had pointed out that he needed her knowledge of Beauxbatons to convincingly portray a transfer student. She couldn't be sure that the academy she had attended was quite the same as its 1855 counterpart, but then, how many at Hogwarts would know the difference?  
  
The inelegant carriages finally deposited them at the entrance and they were able to proceed to the great hall. Unlike the other older students, she and Snape had to be sorted. During the tedious wait for her turn under the hat, Delaia amused herself by scanning the Slytherin table to see if she could pick out her uncle from among the several hundred students already seated there, but without success. This surprised her as he'd mentioned being a prefect in his last years, which should have put him at the head of the table and therefore fairly near her. But, unless he had changed beyond all recognition, she didn't see him.  
  
Turning to Gryffindor, she had no trouble picking out Albus. What she saw was such a shock, however, that she did not notice her name being called until Snape gave her a less-than-gentle shove forward. She stumbled to the sorting stool, her eyes briefly meeting those of the young Dumbledore, who was politely watching from the head of the Gryffindor table. Before she could wipe the dumbfounded expression off her face, it was eclipsed by the sorting hat falling over her eyes. It smelled, she noticed, even worse than the carriages.  
  
"Hmm. Well, this is certainly a surprise," came a voice in her ear. "You are aware that girls aren't allowed at Hogwarts?"  
  
"And you are aware that I know of at least a hundred different ways to set fire to an old hat?"  
  
The mouldy headgear chuckled in her ear. "Oh, don't worry, my dear, after nine hundred years I know how to keep my own counsel. I also know where to put someone capable of such an elaborate deception . . . "  
  
"Don't even think about it," Delaia warned, "I have to be in Gryffindor." She wasn't sure exactly what had made her say that . . . ok, she had a suspicion, but that wasn't the same thing as being sure. And anyway, it only made sense. Snape was almost certainly going in Slytherin, and this way they'd have a foot in both camps, so to speak.  
  
"I don't take requests," the ratty old thing replied acerbically.  
  
"One hundred and one . . . "  
  
"Alright, alright! I can't see that it matters anyway--you won't last a week before they discover your little secret, you know."  
  
"Let me worry about that," Delaia replied confidently, as the damned thing finally yelled out "Gryffindor!" loud enough for the whole hall to hear.  
  
She sat the filthy object back on its stool and trotted over to the Gryffindor table, sliding into a seat near its foot with the other younger students. Her eyes never left Dumbledore, not even when Snape's name was called immediately after hers. Albus looked, she thought, a little bemused, but gave her a small smile as she settled into her place. She barely noticed when her neighbour, a tiny brown-haired boy, leaned over to offer his commiseration on the fact that her brother had just been sorted into Slytherin.  
  
"Yeah, quel dommage."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What a pity," Delaia translated for him. In reality she thought the dungeons went well with Snape's personality and really couldn't imagine him anywhere else. The food appeared shortly thereafter, but she barely managed to eat anything. They'd had a rather hearty lunch at the Three Broomsticks anyway, and besides, she was distracted.  
  
"I think your brother is trying to get your attention," her neighbour said, and Delaia finally glanced over to where Snape was seated. Huge surprise, he was scowling. She ignored him and returned to the much more attractive vision offered by Albus Dumbledore, who was, she decided emphatically, the most attractive man she'd ever seen in her life. Why on earth, she wondered in amazement, had someone with a face like that decided to grow a beard in later life? It had to be to keep the women from constantly harassing him. Her contemplation of the fascinating way the candle-light turned his long auburn hair to burnished bronze, played across his perfect, classical features, and lit up the clear, cerulean blue of his eyes, was interrupted a few minutes later, not by the end of the feast, but by a rough hand on her arm and a yank that brought her up from her seat in one swift motion. An apparently furious Severus Snape glared down his overlong nose at her. "If I could have a word, BROTHER?," he hissed, steering her out of the hall and into a small, curtained archway nearby.  
  
He cast a silencing charm on it before turning to her with his usually sallow complexion almost purple. "What the HELL did you think you were doing?" Delaia was glad of the charm, as his voice would otherwise have carried not only beyond the room, but probably throughout the great hall itself.  
  
"What are you yelling about, Snape? And will you keep it down? I don't have a hearing problem, you know."  
  
"No, you apparently have an INTELLIGENCE problem, or are you deliberately trying to sabotage us before we even begin?"  
  
"Me?! I'm not the one making a scene by dragging someone out of the hall halfway through a meal!"  
  
"No, you're the twelve year old BOY practically drooling over Albus. Do you have ANY idea what you looked like in there?!"  
  
Delaia shifted a little uncomfortably. Had she been that obvious? She regretfully concluded after a brief silence that she might have been. Damn, now Albus would probably avoid her like the plague. Great going. Fifteen minutes a Gryffindor and she was already the house freak.  
  
"I was just surprised," she defended herself. Snape might be right for once, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of hearing her admit it. "He looks," unbelievably stunningly gorgeous, "different."  
  
"Yes, how extraordinary, a little thing like a century and a half actually changing a person." Snape was still glaring, but his complexion was slowly returning to its normal colour. "I find it almost impossible to believe with your COMPLETE lack of ability at deception that you are the niece of one of the most illustrious Slytherins ever to live." He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "The glamour is only going to do part of the job. Were you unaware that you have to at least ATTEMPT to act like a normal, preadolescent boy?"  
  
"Don't lecture me, Snape." Delaia was a bit embarrassed but damn it, she'd had a shock. HE, of course, couldn't be expected to understand, having probably never had a normal, human emotion in his entire bloody life.  
  
"Do you think you could possibly manage not to look like a COMPLETE imbecile if we return to the feast?"  
  
Delaia would have liked to make a snappy comeback, but found that she couldn't think of one. "I'll be fine."  
  
Snape glowered at her for a moment, then sighed and gave up. "Just stay as far away from Dumbledore as you possibly can. Try to remember that he isn't just one of the most powerful wizards in recent memory, but also nobody's fool. You keep acting like you did tonight, and we won't have a chance."  
  
* * *  
  
Snape settled himself back at the Slytherin table a few minutes later in a particularly foul mood. Not only was Zosimus conspicuously absent, but the idiotic little wretch he had been saddled with by a perverse universe was going to give him heart failure. He had just realised that none of the Slytherins surrounding him was the illustrious potions-master-to- be when his neighbour on the right had leaned over him to ask the boy on his left if he'd noticed that the newest Gryffindor seemed just FASCENATED by his senior prefect. Snape had glanced over at the Gryffindor table, not immediately realising that they were talking about his "brother," until he saw the asinine expression on Delaia's face. She was staring at Albus like an acolyte adoring an ancient divinity, only he doubted that most acolytes had quite that lascivious a gleam in their eyes. He had almost choked on his pumpkin juice, willing her to snap out of it, to realise just how strange that expression was on the face of a young boy, which of course she didn't do. If he didn't badly need her to try and recall everything Zosimus had housed in his sanctum sanctorum, to give them some idea where to start to recreate the potion that had resulted in this debacle in the first place, he'd petrify her until spring thaw at the very least.  
  
Snape did not expect his sour expression to save him from relentless, scathing teasing from his housemates--this was Slytherin, after all--so was pleasantly surprised to find that, in his absence, a new subject had replaced Delaia's indiscretion as the hot topic. Zosimus' name caught his attention almost as soon as he had seated himself. A redheaded boy who, had he not been in Slytherin might have been mistaken for a Weasley progenitor, was excitedly proclaiming that Zosimus would certainly take the prize. "Especially as it's at Durmstrang this time, and everyone knows his family has CONTACTS there."  
  
Snape gradually discerned, without actually having to ask, that the excited babbling at all four tables had been caused by the announcement, made while he was berating his idiot of a partner, that the Triwizard tournament was to take place this year at Durmstrang Institute. Four champions would be chosen to attend, one from each house, with the final Hogwarts champion selected at Durmstrang itself. Anyone could enter, so not surprisingly, given the competitive nature that was a requirement for placement in Slytherin, the red-haired boy's championing of the mysteriously absent Zosimus did not go unchallenged. Snape tried to concentrate on his dinner while ignoring the heated debate raging around him and wondering what kind of hell this newest development would play with their plans. If Dumbledore and Zosimus were two of Hogwart's champions, a fact which Snape, at least, did not doubt for a moment, he and Delaia could be facing a serious problem. The tournament, he was informed after a casual inquiry, would require the selected students to be absent from Hogwarts for much of the academic year. It would be a bit difficult, he reflected, to gain the trust of two boys if neither was actually in residence.  
  
Snape speared a piece of rare roast beef with a tad more aggression than absolutely necessary and glanced over at Gryffindor. He was relieved to see that Delaia seemed to have learned her lesson. He could not see her expression, hidden as it was by a fall of dark hair, but at least she was ignoring Albus. Snape really couldn't see the problem. To him the headmaster just looked like a normal, if rather annoyingly pleasant, young man, much as he would have described had anyone ever asked him how he thought a youthful Albus might appear. Delaia obviously saw something more; he could only hope she would show a bit more discretion from this point on; not, of course, that it would matter if Albus soon went on an extended trip abroad. He sighed and ate the rest of his meat. Might as well keep his strength up. It looked like the universe planned to continue indefinitely its favourite game of making Severus Snape the butt of every possible joke.  
  
* * *  
  
A somewhat chastened Delaia returned to the feast and slid into her seat. I will not look at Albus, she told herself, impaling a potato on her fork and pretending it was Snape's head. Just get through this, don't make any mistakes and remember, you'll be in the dormitory soon and can drop this damn glamour and get some sleep. She and Snape had worked out a simple spell to project an image of themselves, with glamour intact, while not having to maintain the entire, complex charm. It worked great as long as they didn't have to move around, shielding a small area rather like a blanket. They had tried it out the previous night and it seemed to work well for sleeping . . .  
  
Delaia became aware that the mousy boy beside her was saying something in her direction. "What?" She looked at him vaguely.  
  
"I said, my name's Ashley Mornington. I'm really pleased to be in Gryffindor, aren't you?"  
  
"Oh, right." Pay attention Delaia; any normal twelve-year-old would want to make friends. "Very glad."  
  
"I'm a first year, too. Wasn't that trip across the lake brilliant?"  
  
"I'm not a first year, so I didn't arrive that way." Delaia answered automatically, her gaze, despite strict orders to the contrary, drifting down the table to where Albus was sitting. She almost dropped her fork when she realised he was watching her. Their eyes met for an instant, and she saw a strange expression cross his face, something approaching speculation, before he turned to answer a query from the burly blond boy sitting next to him. Delaia quickly returned her eyes to her plate, and resolutely kept them there for the rest of the meal. It passed fairly quickly, with her new little friend finding the fact that she had transferred in from Beauxbatons fascinating. At least, she had to assume he did, considering how many questions he asked her about it.  
  
At last the interminable meal was over and the houses rose to follow their prefects to the dormitories. Apparently Albus and the big blond boy were the two for Gryffindor, which explained, she supposed, their prominent seats at the table's head. Albus took the lead, with the students in a chattering group behind him and his companion bringing up the rear. Delaia held back to almost last, deciding not to tempt fate further that night by getting anywhere near Albus. Snape gave her an approving nod as Gryffindor filed out of the hall.  
  
Delaia was concentrating on trying to remember all the twists and turns along the way to the Gryffindor rooms, to the extent that she did not notice anything amiss until she was suddenly pushed into an empty classroom. Wondering if she was due for another round with Snape, although what she'd done wrong this time was a mystery, she turned to see the second Gryffindor prefect closing the door to the hall behind him. "Well, well, a new little Gryffindor." He smiled at her in a way Delaia did not like at all and ran a large hand over her hair and down her back. "And a pretty one at that." Delaia wondered if her glamour was slipping, but it felt the same as always and she wasn't THAT tired. Catching sight of her reflection in a highly polished shield decorating the otherwise unrelieved stone of the wall to her left, she could only see a willowy boy's frame, with dark brown, almost black hair cascading to her waist and her own caramel coloured eyes. In other words, all was as it should be, which meant . . .  
  
"Uh oh." Delaia backed away from the steadily advancing prefect, wondering how she got into these things. Not that she had a problem hexing him to Christmas if needed, but if his reaction was anything to go on, she might have a bit of a problem ahead of her. A desk bumped the back of her legs, stopping her progress across the room. He smiled, advancing with a predatory look in his eyes. Delaia hadn't been one of her academy's duelling champions for nothing; she only hesitated because she was trying to decide which of several really objectionable curses to hit him with when the door opened and Albus walked in. So much for avoiding him, Delaia thought, surreptitiously returning her wand to its narrow pocket up her sleeve.  
  
"Is there a problem, Geoffrey?" Albus asked mildly.  
  
The prefect smiled. "No, just welcoming our new arrival." He didn't look particularly intimidated, Delaia noticed, but he did back a step away from her. "We ought to be friendly, Albus."  
  
"Then you'll want to join everyone else in the common room, so we can welcome ALL our new Gryffindors."  
  
The blond boy smiled nastily, but made no effort to prevent Delaia from slipping around him. "We were just coming."  
  
She did not wait for the two prefects, but scurried up the corridor to where a large painting had swung out of its place on the wall, allowing entrance to a cavernous room beyond. A cheery fire was crackling in the grate, and new and old students milled about, chatting noisily. Delaia found a place in a far corner where, hopefully, she would be inconspicuous, and wondered how long it would be until she could get her room assignment and fall into bed. She had been maintaining the glamour for over three hours now, and was beginning to feel the strain.  
  
Albus and Geoffrey brought the meeting to order, which seemed to be primarily concerned with deciding which of the first years would act as slave to which of the sixth and seventh years. It was an old custom, and while it had long been out of fashion at Beauxbatons, she was aware that it had once been common for lower-level students to act as servants to their more advanced classmates. Apparently, Hogwarts in this era practised the tradition, although she was relieved to find that only first years were expected to participate. She lost interest in the proceedings after ascertaining that they would not involve her, and just wished they'd get on with it. It seemed to take forever, involving as it did squabbles between upper level boys over almost every single first year. Delaia, concentrating on not falling asleep, missed the start of yet another disagreement. It was not until she heard her name that she realised Geoffrey was trying to insist that, as this was her first year at Hogwarts, the custom should apply to her as well.  
  
Delaia immediately saw that the idea appealed to her fellow Gryffindors, who seemed to feel that, as they'd all had to take their turn, there was no reason the new boy should get out of it. Geoffrey was grinning at her maliciously from the red leather armchair he occupied in front of the fire. It did not take a great leap of imagination, Delaia thought in annoyance, to imagine just what it was that had prompted his observation. What was she supposed to do anyway, she wondered, hex the bastard every day for the next year to keep his hands off her? And as his slave, wouldn't she have to share a room with him? She wished she'd practised her memory charms lately, as she saw no way to avoid eventually giving herself away if forced to be constantly around someone who watched her every move.  
  
"I'm sure Mr. de Plannis has already done his turn at Beauxbatons," Albus was objecting. She sent him a smile across the room, but wasn't sure that he caught it. His attention was on Geoffrey, and he wasn't smiling. If he knew the boy's character, Delaia was not surprised. She sincerely hoped he'd win the argument, as every eligible boy but Geoffrey seemed to have already claimed a slave. Not that it would matter; if things were done the same way here as in France, as a prefect, he'd outrank everyone else anyway.  
  
It quickly became obvious that Albus' views were not predominating. Delaia noted that only a few older boys clustered near Geoffrey seemed to be vocally supporting him, but no one was seconding Albus and speaking up for her. Most of the laughing faces surrounding her, in what was beginning to resemble a nightmare, did not look malicious; they just felt that fair was fair, and transfer or no, all new arrivals needed to take their turn. The collective opinion was important in lending support to Geoffrey, who was soon looking confidant of victory. Fine, Delaia thought in irritation. Just do it, and I'll hex you as soon as we're in your rooms. It wasn't until she noticed a tall brunette standing next to the stockier boy lean over to whisper something in his ear that she began to be genuinely concerned. The dark-haired student had a strange expression in his eyes as he met her gaze, and several of his companions laughed at something she could not hear. This whole thing might turn out less than amusing if she had to defend against four or five of them, Delaia thought, especially if they were all, as they appeared, upper level students.  
  
Her heart sank as she heard Albus finally give in. "Very well, if that is the consensus." Most of the boys about her cheered, whether at her misfortune or the fact that the evening was finally drawing to a close and they could get some sleep, she wasn't sure, but she scowled at them on principle anyway. They responded by clapping her on the back and telling her to buck up as they filed off to their rooms. She began rapidly trying to remember her seventh year, multiple opponent attack sequences while subconsciously fingering her wand.  
  
She reluctantly walked forward to where Geoffrey and his little clique, Albus and a few scattered, older Gryffindors were still standing around the fireplace. Geoffrey laid a beefy hand on the back of her neck and chuckled. "Don't look so glum," he admonished, "I think I can guarantee you'll enjoy the experience." His cronies laughed as Delaia turned resentful eyes on them. They would not be laughing in a few minutes, that she'd guarantee. Mission or no mission, this group was going to have an extremely painful night if she had anything to say about it.  
  
Geoffrey had dropped his hand to the small of her back and was propelling her towards the stairs when a calm voice from behind them arrested his progress. "Aren't you forgetting something, Geoffrey?" Albus' voice was even as always, but his tone had a slight edge. "I do believe that I am senior prefect here."  
  
The group around Delaia turned as one to where Dumbledore continued to lean casually against the mantle, two other Gryffindors flanking him, one on either side. None of the three looked pleased. Neither, Delaia suddenly noticed, did Geoffrey's group.  
  
"Your point being, Albus?"  
  
Delaia was slightly shocked to see a vicious little smile hover about Albus' lips. It was not an expression she would ever have associated with him, and combined with the rather dangerous glint in his suddenly cold blue eyes, made her wonder if she knew the kindly old wizard as well as she had thought. "Merely," he said evenly, "that Valentin will be serving me this year. I'm sure you don't have an objection?"  
  
Delaia didn't dare to look round at Geoffrey, but heard his sharply indrawn breath and felt the tension in the large body behind her. She thought for a moment that she would have to be explaining to Snape tomorrow how she'd somehow become involved in a mass duel in the Gryffindor common room mere hours after being sorted there. A minute later, however, a spiteful push against her back sent her careening into Albus' arms; apparently, Geoffrey had backed down, this time at least. Delaia was not so naïve as to think she would have no more problems with him, but was grateful for the respite. God, she needed sleep.  
  
She looked up at Albus, ready to gush out her appreciation, only to see his expression icy, and narrow-eyed. Admittedly, he was watching the retreating figures of Geoffrey and his little gang, and not directing the look towards her, but Delaia suddenly wondered if she might not have just acquired a much more difficult set of problems. 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three  
  
Snape was experiencing a serious case of déjà vu. The cause was the belated appearance of Apollonius Zosimus, who had breezed into the Slytherin common room moments after the house had returned to sort itself out following the feast. He had apparently been on holiday at his family's mansion along the Riviera and simply forgot the time. The fact that he was a prefect did not seem to concern him, nor, for that matter, anyone else. Snape received the distinct impression that Zosimus was used to doing exactly as he pleased, and everyone else was used to letting him.  
  
It was not primarily his cavalier attitude towards his responsibilities that had shocked Severus to the point of momentary incoherence, however. It was his appearance. Put him in a lurid set of robes instead of the elegant grey velvet he wore, make the riotous blond curls hanging down his back a slightly brassier tone, and he would be Gilderoy Lockhart all over again. From the sparkling, mischievous blue eyes to the blindingly white teeth, Zosimus was a picture. One that made Severus want to gag. It also made it very difficult to accept him as the Slytherin genius he was supposed to be--Lockhart had been such a fool, Snape was afraid he would underestimate his double, something he most certainly could not afford to do. So, as the room slowly cleared out, Snape forced himself forward to at least meet the man, and hopefully make a decent first impression.  
  
He was aware that he was going to have to put forward his schedule somewhat, as taking months to gain Zosimus' trust was impossible if he was to shortly take an extended trip abroad, but somehow he doubted that the truth was the correct approach at this point. Indeed, like most of his house, Snape was accustomed to viewing it as a last resort. He also happened to have the perfect entré into Apollonius' good graces. Not for nothing was his great aunt currently one of the leading alchemists in Europe. Of course, he reminded himself, she was not his great-aunt yet; her sister had yet to marry Hieronymus and graft that particular branch onto the Snape family tree with the birth of their daughter, who was eventually to become Severus' mother. However, he surely knew enough family history to fake an acquaintance at this point.  
  
Had any of his Hogwarts colleagues been able to see him in the next few minutes, they would have had considerable trouble recognising him as the familiar saturnine character they thought they knew. Of course, his glamour helped, as its youthful face was able to more easily effect the, to him, rather unfamiliar expression of jovial camaraderie that seemed to predominate among Zosimus' little clique. "You must be Appolonius Zosimus," Snape extended a hand, "Hieronymus de Plannis, newly transferred from Beauxbatons. I was sorry to have missed you at the feast, as I have a message from an admirer of yours."  
  
Zosimus took the proffered hand with an inquiringly raised brow. One of his companions laughed. "See, Apollo, you're famous even beyond the bounds of Hogwarts."  
  
"I wasn't aware of any . . . admirers at Beauxbatons." Severus noted the pause, and wondered, not for the first time, why Zosimus had chosen to attend Hogwarts rather than the more convenient French academy. "Ah, well, will wonders never cease?" Zosimus murmured, giving him a very un-Lockhart- like appraisal from narrowed blue eyes.  
  
"The lady in question is not in France. She mentioned, once she found out I would be attending Hogwarts, that I would doubtless find myself with some competition at last in my field; she assured me that, if either of us found ourselves in need of any . . . more esoteric . . . ingredients, to let her know."  
  
"And the lady's name?"  
  
"A friend of the family." Severus looked pointedly at Zosimus' companions. The blond Slytherin waved them away with an elegant gesture and they obediently moved off a few yards. "She would not want her assistance generally known," Snape cautioned him. The young man nodded once, impatiently. Severus merely smiled; damn, sometimes he impressed even himself. The two things no Slytherin worthy of the name could resist was a good mystery and the prospect of easy gain, and he was dangling both under Zosimus' eager nose. He drew out the moment as long as he could, then leaned forward slightly and whispered, "Augusta Laelia Ziglerin. Perhaps you've heard of her?"  
  
To his credit, Zosimus did not obviously react, although Severus could almost see the succession of rapid thoughts that passed across his deliberately guileless blue gaze. Then the boy smiled, so charmingly that it caused Snape to blink. "Hieronymus, old boy! What a pleasure to have you with us this year. Come, you must help us to do justice to father's start-of-school present." A careless but strong arm was thrown about Snape's shoulders, and he was propelled in a sudden whirlwind of activity through introductions to the three older Slytherins who apparently comprised Zosimus' clique, then down a familiar stone corridor to the prefect's room, where an aged bottle of excellent brandy was produced. As a first encounter, Snape thought smugly a few moments later, lounging on Zosimus' fine green leather furniture with a rather large snifter in hand, it had been practically perfect. He only hoped Delaia was doing as well.  
  
* * *  
  
It was, perhaps, best for Severus' good mood that he could not see Delaia's current dilemma. Albus had quite obviously not planned on having a slave this year, and had made no plans to accommodate anyone else in the somewhat small prefect's rooms he occupied. For the most part, this was not a problem--with one minor exception.  
  
"We'll have another moved in for you tomorrow, of course," he was saying. "Although I am not precisely sure where we will put it."  
  
Delaia stood frozen in place, staring at the large four poster that dominated the room. It formed practically the only clear spot. The rest of the space was positively packed with a bewildering array of items, both living and not. A large phoenix perched on a silver stand near the door; something else rustled ominously from the confines of a wicker basket near the bed; a sleek grey cat twined about her legs affectionately, staring up at her with golden eyes; and a large fish tank gurgled in a corner. The only furniture, besides the bed, seemed to be an elaborately carved, black walnut wardrobe in one corner and a bewildering array of bookshelves of all shapes and sizes scattered haphazardly about. Across any space not covered in books resided an impressive collection of magical implements, including a foe glass, two duelling platforms, a pensieve, a large enough quantity of potions' supplies to make even her uncle envious, and a furiously whirling sneakoscope. Albus sighed and apologised for the latter, much to her amazement. "I forgot to turn it off earlier," he explained somewhat abashedly. "It is far too sensitive for use here anyway, can't think why I brought it. Goes off at the slightest thing."  
  
Like an overage, female student under a glamour?, Delaia wondered. She was grateful that Albus had attributed the sneakoscope's reaction to the pranks probably taking place all over school now that its 800 or so students were back in residence. She glanced apprehensively at the foe glass, but none of the shadowy figures in its depths bore any resemblance to her. Of course, they shouldn't, she reminded herself--she did not bear Albus the smallest ill-will, but was relieved that the glass was able to recognise this. Now, back to the problem at hand.  
  
"Um, so where do I sleep tonight then?," she asked, afraid she already knew the answer to that one.  
  
"With me, I'm afraid. I don't snore," he assured her, seeing the apprehensive look on her face. Delaia smiled slightly to herself--that was not exactly her chief concern.  
  
She would later attribute her mistake to distraction over the sleeping arrangements, and concern whether the glamour charm she'd contrived to help her get some rest would work on someone lying beside her. Albus cleared a space near the wardrobe for her trunk and commented that he had never known the house-elves to be so slow bringing one up before. Delaia absentmindedly replied that she'd carried hers with her, and, producing the shrunken item from a pocket in her robes, set it on the ground and flicked her wand carelessly in its direction, returning it to full size in an instant. She hadn't bothered even to mutter the engorgio charm; it was, after all, a simple spell for which a thought sufficed. Simple enough, she suddenly realised at the disbelieving look on her companion's face, for a fully qualified witch, but probably not for a beginning second year.  
  
Albus did not comment, however, just regarded her silently for an instant, then remarked that he was glad to see that the elves weren't neglecting their duties. Delaia smiled weakly, and collapsed onto the lid of her trunk in exhaustion when Albus left a moment later for the prefect's bathroom. She was in trouble, no doubt about it.  
  
She reviewed her most pressing problems dispiritedly. One, her glamour was now into its fourth hour and closing fast on the fifth; she would soon be forced to either try the alternate charm while she was still strong enough to cast it properly, or to trust that the dark of night would sufficiently hide her identity, as there was no way she could keep it up all night. Second, she HAD to remember that she was supposed to know no more magic than the average first year. The difficulty lay in remembering exactly what she had and had not known as a second year student. Even once challenging spells had become simple with repetition, so much so that she usually didn't even consciously think about them. Still, she would have to pay attention, as too many more demonstrations of extreme precociousness and Albus was sure to realise something was up. She could just hear Sev reminding her that she was supposed to be gaining his trust, not engendering his suspicion. Of course, dear Sev didn't have any of these problems, she thought savagely. He was in a house with which he was intimately familiar, and, as supposedly a seventh year student, would have to hide few of his abilities. Well, somehow she was going to have to make this work. Despite Sev telling her to stay away from Albus, this set of circumstances seemed to her fortuitous. Yes, she might give herself away if she wasn't careful, but, on the other hand, avoiding the man was not going to gain his trust either, was it? On the whole, this could work quite well, as long as she didn't screw up.  
  
Of course, she had a third problem, too, but she preferred to ignore it at present.  
  
When Albus returned, Delaia was already bathed and in bed, her glamour charm cast as strong as she could make it, and a book open on her knees. It was the second-year spellbook she had picked up in Diagon Alley a few days earlier. She had decided to remind herself of just what she was and was not supposed to know. Albus offered to cast a personal illumination spell on her side of the bed to allow her to keep reading while he slept in darkness. She accepted, primarily because, although tired, removing the strain of the glamour had also removed her feeling of absolute exhaustion. On the whole, she preferred to lose a little sleep and make sure that he noticed no change in her appearance than to risk her experimental spell failing the first night. Once another bed arrived, there should be no further problems.  
  
Albus dropped off to sleep almost immediately, leaving her in a pool of softly glowing golden light in an otherwise pitch-black room. There were no windows on the inner rooms at Hogwarts, and nothing is as dark as a castle at night. Delaia should have found it familiar--after all, Beauxbatons had been much the same and it had never bothered her, not even in her last year when she had finally obtained her own room. But the sounds of Hogwarts at night were not at all the same, and her many worries kept her up for several hours, staring into the darkness.  
  
She resolutely did not look at the softly sleeping man . . . boy . . . whatever, at her side. She was absolutely going to just think of him as Albus, her uncle's old friend who had spent many evenings in the parlour of their farmhouse, drinking whatever Apollos' current liquor of choice happened to be (few people knew, but one of his dungeon storerooms contained, not potion supplies, but hundreds of bottles of rare wines from around the world) and soundly beating her at chess. That was who he was, who he had to be, for, assuming all went well, she and Snape would eventually be going back to their time and leaving him in his. She idly wondered, as she finally removed Albus' light charm and fell into sleep, if it would be so terrible if they failed.  
  
* * *  
  
Severus awoke with a considerable hangover and without the potion necessary to banish it. Staggering into the great hall with its happy, early morning noises did not improve things, nor did the fact that Zosimus and company did not seem to have bothered to get up for the experience. Knowing that he could have slept in added to his headache, although that was nothing compared to his feelings on noticing that Delaia was, for some inexplicable reason, now sitting beside Dumbledore at the head of the Gryffindor table. What part, he wondered, of his admonition to give Albus a wide birth had not been clear? How did "stay away" morph into "sit as close as possible" in the span of one evening?  
  
Not wanting to risk another scene by dragging his annoying younger sibling out of the hall in front of everyone, he was forced to waylay her after breakfast. He intended to use the excuse of helping her find her first class, but found that she already had an escort. It was odd, he thought, seeing even a much younger Albus Dumbledore in plain black robes, their severity only lessened by a shiny prefect's badge. He could never remember previously seeing the man in black; in fact, thinking back on it, Albus' fashion sense had been only slightly more restrained than Lockhart's. The man's steady gaze was familiar, however. Severus met it easily, commenting that he was glad to see his little brother was making friends already in his new house. Albus introduced himself but did not mention why he was sticking so close to the new Gryffindor. He did seem to feel that Sev could be relied on to get his brother safely to class, however, and soon excused himself.  
  
"I, uh, have to get to transfiguration," Delaia commented, apparently hoping to postpone their conversation for another time. Of course, her diversionary tactic failed utterly. Severus was nothing if not persistent. He quickly propelled her into yet another curtained alcove an instant later.  
  
"I thought we had agreed that Albus is off limits for the moment?" Severus tried to ignore his still pounding head and speak fairly calmly. Judging by the apprehensive glance she gave him, his effort had not been entirely successful.  
  
"There was nothing I could do about it," she said crossly. "They have some ridiculous custom here about slaves for upper classmen . . . " Severus felt his headache getting worse.  
  
"Tell me you're not . . . ," he pleaded.  
  
"Well, it wasn't exactly my choice, was it?" The girl replied in a savage undertone. Severus noticed for the first time that she did not look as if she had slept particularly well, and seemed pale despite the glamour. "Look, I really don't want to be late my first day. Can you just take me to transfiguration and we'll go through this later?"  
  
Severus, deciding that neither of them was in the mood for a constructive talk, silently agreed, taking the parchment on which her schedule was written and briefly perusing it. As they started up the stairs towards her second floor classroom, however, he spied Zosimus waving a beckoning hand at him from the hall below. "I need to go," he told Delaia quickly. "It's very simple," honestly, the girl looked appalled merely at the idea of going to class on her own. "Just up these stairs and around the bend, second door on your left." With that hasty explanation, he swept down the stairs to join his new clique. His smile was genuine as he remembered that potions was first on his schedule, and unless things had changed, sixth and seventh year classes were combined (the class was an elective after fifth year.) Potions with Zosimus--this should be interesting.  
  
* * *  
  
Delaia turned from watching Severus abandon her to see Geoffrey and friends bearing down from the top of the stairs. She could avoid a confrontation, she realised, by the simple expedient of catching up with Sev and following him wherever he was going, but that would almost certainly make her late to class. Not that she had a problem losing house points, even on her first day--she had been rather famous for it at Beauxbatons, although the points she won duelling had usually more than compensated. However, the idea of running from the overfed pervert bearing down on her would have been distasteful in normal circumstances, and in her current mood was unthinkable. She therefore leaned casually against the stone wall behind her, waiting while Geoffrey and two of his friends from the previous night moved closer. They didn't bother to get in a triangular attack formation, she noticed, apparently either seriously underestimating her or else planning nothing more than a bullying session. Too bad, Delaia thought evilly. She'd been itching to hex someone for days, and since Sev was currently off limits, these would do nicely.  
  
"All alone, Valentin?" Geoffrey grinned nastily, reaching for her. "Your master should keep a closer eye on you. I would if I were him."  
  
Delaia avoided his grasp and ducked between his friends to skip up several stairs. When she had the height advantage she wanted, she turned with a sneer of her own. "But you aren't, are you Geoffrey? How sad, no one wants you, do they?" She let her gaze travel up and down his form offensively. "Not that that's surprising, of course."  
  
He turned a nice shade of red and lunged for her, forgetting to even draw his wand. Delaia spun out of his grip and retreated upwards several more steps, laughing at him as she did so. "What IS surprising," she added, "is that they ever made an ugly slug like you a prefect. How desperate is Gryffindor, anyway? God knows, even a troll would have been an improvement!"  
  
A dangerous expression came over the boy's face as he slowly drew his wand. His companions looked a bit uneasy, she noticed. "Geoffrey, we're in the main hall," one ventured to say.  
  
"I'm going to teach our newest transfer student a little lesson," the blond boy hissed, ignoring him. "One he'll remember for awhile."  
  
Delaia felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that accompanied duelling flood her system. Her eyes sparkled and she laughed delightedly, then hit him with a string of hexes, none of which she bothered to vocalise. Better that way to confuse an opponent, her old duelling teacher had commented; it's much harder to counter if you don't know what is coming. "Your reaction time is a trifle slow," she told his inert form, as it bounced down the stairs a few seconds later. "Might want to work on that."  
  
Delaia would normally have been willing to let his two companions go, but the tall brunette who had seemed so chummy with him the previous night made the mistake of drawing his wand, and in her current temperament, that was enough. She hit him with the first curse that came to mind--she had long ago found that duelling went better if she simply let instinct take over-- which happened to be a particularly evil version of the Medusa hex. It transformed him into a rather surprised-looking marble statue, which fell back onto the last of Geoffrey's companions, causing the boy's head to connect with the stone of the wall with a sickening thud. The two--boy and statue--then rolled down the stairs to land hard on their still petrified friend below.  
  
The whole thing had lasted less than a minute, and those students who had not been on the stairs at the time were mostly unaware that anything odd had happened. Those who had seen it, however, were staring at Delaia with expressions ranging from bewilderment to fear. She came back to herself with a thud, the laughter fading as quickly as it had come, when she noticed that one of them was a tall, auburn-haired figure, which pushed its way through the throng and grabbed her arm. He lightly took her wand, which she belatedly recognised might have been a good idea to transform, out of her grasp and tucked it up his sleeve.  
  
"I think that will do for now," Albus commented, gazing at her levelly before glancing down at the unmoving threesome at the foot of the stairs. "Do you mind?"  
  
Delaia removed the spells with a thought, but only Geoffrey managed to stagger to his feet. The brunette changed back to human form, but was quite disoriented, a common side-effect with that particular curse. Their companion had apparently been knocked unconscious by his contact with either the wall or the floor, and remained where he was. Albus directed several nearby students to take the two more battered boys to the infirmary; Geoffrey had, after shooting Delaia a hateful look, stalked out of the hall.  
  
Albus kept his grip on her arm, but did not lead her toward her second- floor classroom. Instead, he marched her though the entranceway and out of the castle. They finally stopped behind a high hedge bordering a flower garden beyond the greenhouses. Albus released her arm, stepped back several feet and levelled his wand at her. "Alright. Who are you?"  
  
Delaia sat on the edge of a stone well, wrapped her arms around herself and stared at him resentfully. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. If she refused to talk to him, he'd almost certainly drag her before the school authorities--indeed, she wasn't entirely certain why he hadn't already--and ruin everything. If she did tell him, Sev would kill her, or at least he would if Albus didn't believe her. Noting the suspicious expression on his face at the moment, Delaia didn't give much for her chances with honesty.  
  
While Delaia frantically cast about for some way to explain her abilities, Albus retreated another few paces and pulled out her wand. It was almost certainly the strangest one he had ever seen and she watched him trying to puzzle out its significance. It was shaped like a slim, four-sided pyramid, its body slightly heavier and broader towards the base than the top, with two of the sides almost twice as wide as the others. Up one of the broader sides wove ancient runes of which even Delaia did not known all the meanings. The wand's composition was even more unusual than its shape, being black volcanic rock instead of wood; Delaia did not know what it had at its core. She wondered idly if Apollo would; after all, it was he who had given it to her, a present on her eleventh birthday. Its strength was one reason for her success in duels at school; no one else's wand had been anything like that powerful.  
  
Albus gave her a speculative look, then used her wand to cast a simple severing charm at the branch of a nearby tree. Realising his intention a second before the spell hit, Delaia ducked behind the well, shielding her head with her hands. Albus just stood there, as if in shock, as the blast reigned a hail of limbs and leaves down on them from every tree in the vicinity. Fortunately for him, none of the bigger bits fell directly on him.  
  
"It, er, takes a bit of getting used to," she commented, emerging from behind the well and brushing herself down. "It took me awhile to be able to direct it properly." She plucked it from his unresisting fingers. "You probably shouldn't try to use it just yet. With your ability, the results could be, well . . .," she gestured around at the destruction of the garden, "unfortunate."  
  
"Who are you?" Albus asked again, in wonderment.  
  
Delaia sighed, and used her newly retrieved wand to remove the glamour. He wasn't likely to believe the truth, but fabricating a convincing enough lie to take in everything that had happened that morning was beyond her creative ability at the moment. Albus, she thought, as his amazed gaze wandered over her real form, I sincerely hope you're up to this.  
  
* * *  
  
Severus, meanwhile, was deep in conversation with Zosimus over the contents of their caldron, which did not contain the ridiculously simple potion assigned to the other students, but rather a fascinating concoction of Zosimus' own. The harassed-looking young wizard supposedly teaching the class was apparently used to letting Apollo do as he liked, although he looked somewhat resentful over being airily informed that Severus was to be included in that exemption. After a few minutes of quizzing his newest student on the uses of basic potions ingredients, however, and encountering Snape's laconic but accurate replies delivered in his most offensive drawl, he had reluctantly given in. Indeed, he seemed relieved to get rid of yet another too-talented Slytherin, and Snape had joined several other boys crowded around his new associate's worktable.  
  
Severus soon discovered that Zosimus' bonhomie gave way to an intense concentration when working. He quickly evaluated Snape's abilities and set him to chopping the ingredients for what Severus recognised as a variant on one of the master's more obscure potions; he had, or rather would, do a paper on it in his fourth year at Hogwarts. The fact that he seemed to know which ingredients would be needed even before Apollo asked for them soon had the young man sending him suspicious glances, but that didn't stop Severus from doing it. A little mystery was a necessary component in his plans--if he played his cards right, before long Zosimus would be begging him to explain his uncanny knowledge, providing him with a chance, at least, to convince him of who he really was.  
  
"I need something to use as a binding solution for the two halves of the potion," Zosimus commented a few minutes later, glancing at Snape from under ridiculously long lashes. "Any ideas, Hiro? I had thought perhaps fluxweed or powdered lion fish scales . . . "  
  
"Is this some kind of test, Apollo?" Snape regarded him sardonically, placing a small vial in his hand. "You know perfectly well they're both far too weak. A distillation of graphorn, however, should work well." Snape felt no concern giving him the answer; as Zosimus had had the rather unusual ingredient already in his stores, he'd either already discovered its properties or shortly would do so--anyway, the man had eventually invented the thing, so he wasn't changing history.  
  
The other man chuckled. "You deserve your reputation, Hiro." He finished the solution quickly, stirring it with a flourish. "Now," he looked around innocently, "who shall we test it on?"  
  
Snape stifled the urge to laugh as Apollo's eyes fell on their hapless teacher, still trying to explain some twenty minutes after class began the basics behind a simple growth potion. Zosimus passed a vial of his newest concoction to one of his hapless minions--Snape now understood better why he bothered to keep them around--and cut his eyes to the professor. The selected stooge was good, Snape thought, watching the quick but subtle way that he slipped around the class and dropped the vial, contents and all, into the professor's cauldron while the man was busy writing on the board. He then rejoined Zosimus, who took him to task for leaving behind the crystal flask. They all watched eagerly as the professor finished his sample growth solution and picked a small grass snake out of an aquarium to test it on.  
  
Zosimus grinned happily. "This should be good," he murmured in Snape's ear; the older man had to agree. Apollo's potion was useless in itself, but when combined with other elixirs, it boosted their power exponentially. It had been an important discovery that was regularly used to stretch the potency of extremely expensive potions in Snape's era. Combined with a full strength solution, of course, it effects should be . . .  
  
The classroom cleared quickly after the garden snake reached fifteen feet in length and began thrashing about the lectern. Snape had to practically drag Zosimus from the room, as the man was doubled over in laughter at the sight of their poor professor dancing around the front of the class, trying to get a good enough shot at the snake to reduce it.  
  
"Well, that's potions for today," Apollo giggled, leaning helplessly against the corridor wall. Waiting with folded arms while his brilliant, if undignified, friend caught his breath, Snape saw a most worrying sight. Albus, looking grim, followed by a very reluctant looking Delaia, strode down the corridor in their direction. Pausing in front of the two men, Albus regarded Snape with an expression that indicated more than normal interest. Severus cut his eyes to Delaia, but she was either captivated by the younger version of her uncle still chuckling mildly to himself, or else was studiously avoiding Snape's gaze. Had he been betting, he would have said the latter.  
  
His sense of foreboding was soon confirmed when Albus informed him, in a particularly stern tone of voice, "Severus, I believe we need to talk." 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
  
Author's note: I know this is a very short chapter for me, but I'll be busy for a few days writing other things, and I felt guilty leaving everything hanging. So I thought I'd at least answer a few questions before taking my little break. Back soon with more . . . oh, if only life could be all Potter fic and chocolates, and annoying things like work were not necessary!  
  
  
  
"He, I mean you, called it the golden elixir." Delaia smiled apologetically at Zosimus. "You were never very inventive with names, I'm afraid. It had a golden colour, and it was an elixir, so . . . "  
  
"How frightfully unoriginal, all the same." Zosimus, seated in a brocaded armchair before his own fireplace, almost looked affronted. "I'd like to think that, if I could put a decade and a half into creating the damn thing, I'd at least manage to name it properly."  
  
He paused to pour them all another round, the eighth or ninth since they had settled there that morning. It was now approaching eight in the evening, and after hours of question-and-answering, they were finally reaching the crux of the issue. Delaia was feeling a bit light-headed, having consumed more alcohol than food since breakfast, but was remarkably cheery nonetheless. Both of their intended contacts had been at least willing to listen to the crazy tale they wove. Zosimus, in fact, had been delighted, except for the part about his recent demise. Delaia had planned on tactfully leaving that out, but it had been difficult to explain otherwise why she and Snape had been poking around his potion's stores in the middle of the night.  
  
"You mean I actually die of old age?," he had asked in utter disgust. "Well, there you are, and I always thought I'd go out in a blaze of glory at fifty. Quite shocking. Although," he grinned widely at Albus, "not nearly as much so as discovering that we are doomed to be lifelong friends. What strange alliances circumstance makes."  
  
Albus looked less than convinced about the idea of friendships of any kind with the Slytherin. In fact, he had seemed largely unimpressed most of the day. He had barely allowed her to begin an explanation that morning before insisting that they go and find Severus and hear his version at the same time. Delaia had felt obliged to warn him that there was every likelihood that her partner would obliviate him at the first opportunity, which, in retrospect, had probably not set the right tone for the conversation, she thought. Of course, after that Albus had kept his wand in hand, in fact it was still there hours later, and had narrowly watched Snape's every move.  
  
Severus had caustically pointed out fairly early on that, even were he inclined to try a memory charm, it would be a bit difficult to explain why the Gryffindor prefect could remember nothing of a fairly nasty duel he had broken up earlier in the day. Leaving the duel in and removing everything else would leave them with the same mess Delaia had faced earlier in the garden, and, even were he to invent a plausible explanation for her unaccountably advanced duelling skills, she would almost certainly give herself away again within days. Delaia had glowered at him over that completely unnecessary comment, but had been so pleased that he had decided to just get the explanations over with that she was willing to overlook it. Life would be so much easier if, at least among the four of them, she could be herself.  
  
The problem remained of convincing Albus, however. True, he had not yet run for the headmaster, but Delaia was far from convinced that he was buying into any of this. Snape seemed to have reached the same conclusion, and had directed much of his commentary his way. The problem was that, unlike with Zosimus, they really had nothing to use as proof of their story in Albus' case. Delaia had been able to answer virtually every family question Zosimus asked, with the exception of a few truly obscure ones which he said he'd thrown in only to test her. "If you had studied to prepare for this, you'd have known Aunt Mildred's first husband's first name, and then I'd have had you. No one goes near the . . . old dear. Horrid woman." He had shuddered and downed another whiskey, the drink of the day, apparently. Snape had also been useful, allowing Zosimus to quiz him on the potions he would eventually invent, the premises for several of which the man had apparently already conceived. That had been enough for him, and he had firmly declared himself "in" a few hours back. Albus, however, was another matter altogether.  
  
Delaia had never really thought about it, but, although she'd spent a good deal of time with Albus over the years, she really knew very little about him. He and uncle had mostly discussed alchemy and potions, both of which Albus seemed to have taken up in earnest only after this period in his life. They had also talked about sports--Albus had supported the Puddlemere United quidditch team and could go on about them for hours--but in this era there was no such group. Other than that, they had played chess; he had asked her about school, berating Zosimus for giving in to family pressure and sending her to Beauxbatons after he became her guardian; and he had always brought her whatever candy he was currently favouring. That was, she had realised somewhat uncomfortably, everything she knew about a man she had known literally since childhood. It was a rather strange thought.  
  
Severus had not failed to make a few snarky comments to the effect that she might have paid a little more attention at some point, but he had done no better when she had turned the floor over to him. "But didn't you work for Albus for years, Sev? You two must have had just dozens of heart to hearts, didn't you?"  
  
He had made a valiant attempt, she had to admit, to dredge up something, anything, that might wipe the look of patent disbelief off Albus' face, but had so far had no success. Snape could talk with authority about Albus' years as Hogwart's headmaster (which hadn't happened yet), discuss his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood (also still to come), his work with Nicolas Flamel (he had never met the man), and his victory over Grindlewald in a wizard's duel (decades away against another foe yet to be born.) It wasn't, Delaia admitted, going very well. She had the nagging impression that, if they did not come up with something soon, Albus might decide that he wanted nothing more to do with the maniacs with whom he'd wasted most of a day. Zosimus wasn't helping, making witty comments with increasing regularity to the effect that the three of them really didn't need any Gryffindor interference anyway (he had declared that, as his niece, she counted as an honorary Slytherin.)  
  
Delaia sighed. Something about Albus' childhood, she mused. Something obscure that no one would know whom he hadn't told himself. Damn, if her head would just clear so that she could think properly it would help. Maybe if she ate, she thought. Zosimus apparently had the same idea, for he declared a recess for sustenance, and flooed the kitchens demanding dinner. A few minutes later a couple of obsequious house-elves arrived, set up a small dining table, and laid out a pretty impressive spread. Albus was apparently still intrigued enough with the story to stay for dinner, although he didn't eat much, she noticed. Probably thinks we're planning to slip some sort of mind-altering potion in his soup. Not that she'd put it past Snape, assuming he had anything on him.  
  
To his credit, Zosimus turned off the snide comments and played the charming host during the meal. He kept up a steady patter of mostly inane conversation while passing dishes around to everyone as if he did it all the time at home, which he did not, as Delaia knew for a fact. He might have lived in a relatively modest home in later life, although the "farmhouse" had had nine bedrooms and sat all alone in a huge expanse of land, but a staff of no fewer than eight house elves had waited on him hand and foot. Admittedly, some of those had been essentially lab assistants, but not all. She remember one ancient elf named Dizzy who had been kept solely for her ability to make the most wonderful pastries . . .  
  
"Delaia, aren't you going to pass Albus the beets? Let's be civil, my dear," Zosimus chided her.  
  
Delaia smiled vaguely, still remembering Dizzy's chocolate eclairs. "He doesn't eat beets. Remember," she asked Albus chuckling, "you said you loved them until that summer when you and Aberforth and that cousin of yours, what was his name . . . oh yes, Arthur something, you three had an eating contest with the contents of your grandmother's pantry, and you ate six jars of her beets all by yourself, then staggered outside and were sick all over her nice clean laundry . . . " Delaia broke off, realising that everyone was staring at her, especially Albus, who had stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth and the most comically dumbfounded expression on his face. "Oh, sorry," Delaia smiled apologetically, "I guess that wasn't the best dining table story, was it?"  
  
Snape suddenly began laughing, not a snide snicker but a true, helpless series of guffaws. It was such an odd sound from him that Delaia briefly wondered if Albus hadn't slipped HIM something, then felt immediately ashamed of herself. Zosimus was also smiling, looking from her to Albus with what could only be called a Slytherin grin.  
  
"Well, how about it, old friend?," he asked. "Did you really ruin your dear grandmama's best sheets?"  
  
"I was six," Albus said, still appearing dazed. He looked at Delaia in amazement. "I never told ANYONE that story, and grandmother was so upset, she never allowed it to be mentioned." He stared unseeingly down at his plate for a minute. "It wasn't sheets," he informed Zosimus after a pause. "It was two prized heirloom quilts, and even magical cleaner could never remove all the stains."  
  
After that, Albus began giving them a little more benefit of the doubt, which was just as well, Delaia thought, as the part of the story they had yet to tell was more than strange, it verged on the absurd.  
  
"So, basically, you two have just completed a voyage unlike that ever made before in the history of the world, and you have no bloody idea how you did it," Zosimus summed up for them an hour or so later. Delaia, feeling full and sleepy from too much food and drink, especially the drink, had pretty well abdicated her part in the conversation to Severus, who had a more elegant way of summing up their predicament anyway. She had only objected a few times when he attempted, quite unfairly of course, to blame the whole accident on her.  
  
"Actually," she mused aloud, "it was THEIR fault," she waved a hand in Albus' and Zosimus' general direction. "He," she indicated her uncle while reaching for the rest of the delightful Chablis which they had turned to when the whiskey ran out, "owled me to return home and then up and died before I could get there. I had standing instructions," she informed Severus haughtily, wondering why he was smiling at her--she didn't trust a smiling Snape, maybe that should be some kind of maxim . . . where was she? Oh yes, "to take the golden elixir and all his writings on the subject immediately to Albus if anything happened to him, so I did. Or at least, I tried." She sniffed. It was all very sad. She suddenly realised that, in all the confusion, she'd never had the chance to properly mourn her uncle's passing.  
  
"There, there," Zosimus comforted her. "I'm sure that, wherever I am, it's a better place and I'm feeling no pain."  
  
Delaia gave him a watery smile, ignoring Severus' half-choked comment about someone else feeling no pain at the moment. Anyway, she didn't know what he was talking about.  
  
"Then he," she gestured towards Albus, "tells him," she gestured towards Snape, then lost track of what she was talking about and decided just to finish her drink.  
  
"Yes, well, as my dear brother has so eloquently explicated the situation, I feel I can hardly have anything to add . . .," Snape was definitely laughing at her now and so, she noticed, were the other two. Albus gently removed the bottle from her fingers and Zosimus handed him a blanket that he thoughtfully tucked around her. "So sweet . . . Albus . . . ," she murmured, then floated off to sleep with the quiet voices of the boys nothing more than background noise. 


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five  
  
  
  
Snape ran a hand over his damp hair and sighed. Three days of working almost non-stop in Zosimus' dungeon laboratory had so far yielded little beyond a comprehension of just how difficult the task ahead was likely to be. This would probably have been true even if Delaia could recall the entire contents of Zosimus' storeroom, so they could at least be sure they had all the necessary ingredients for the elixir on hand, but she could not. After much patient quizzing on his part, Severus had managed to comprise a partial list, including some ingredients she was sure about and others that she thought were right based on their colour and smell. Still, even had she had a perfect memory, there was no chance for her to recall everything, for the simple reason that many of the mysterious chests Zosimus had used to contain his most exotic ingredients had never been opened in her presence.  
  
"I am NOT a potions expert," she had finally informed Snape, "despite the family's acute disappointment, my talents lay in other areas. A fact I will be happy to demonstrate if you continue to browbeat me."  
  
Zosimus had stepped in at that point to note neutrally that he felt they had enough to be going on with for the present, and Delaia had flounced off somewhere, probably to get in more trouble. Snape just hoped she wasn't planning on hexing anyone else, as they had had enough trouble glossing over the first little incident. Albus had proved useful there, as few Gryffindors were inclined to question his word on the subject. Severus smiled. Who would have thought him such a cool liar? Zosimus had also been quite pleased to circulate the rumour, readily believed by Slytherin, that the Gryffindor prefect Geoffrey had been trying to hex a member of his own house when he slipped on the stairs, careened into his friends, and caused all three to end up tumbling head over heels down the main staircase. The Slytherins had found the story so amusing that it had been gleefully told, retold, and widely embroidered upon, to the point that few at Hogwarts had any idea of the truth. Even some of those who had seen the incident had begun to doubt their memories in the face of a story agreed upon by usually opposite forces. It would not, Snape reflected, be possible to cover up too many more indiscretions by his reluctant partner, however. He only hoped Albus was managing to do as he'd promised and keep an eye on her.  
  
Zosimus came into the dungeon with yet another pile of dusty tombs from the restricted section. He seemed to have no difficulty checking out anything he wanted, although Severus was sure he had not asked for permission to withdraw some of THESE. Indeed, Snape had been a little shocked at the contents of Hogwart's nineteenth century library; many of the volumes had evidently been removed by his day, even from restricted use. So far, however, no work they consulted yielded anything useful on the subject of time travel. Most did not mention it at all; the few that did recommended a time turner, which was useless for their needs. None had so far even mentioned the possibility of a potion producing a time distortion.  
  
Their only clue, other than Delaia's not-very-reliable memory, was Snape's vague recollection of the battle potions Zosimus had been perfecting just prior to beginning his period of solitary labour. The tentative premise on which they were working was that his research on time travel had grown out of something he had noticed in connection with one or more of his other experiments. The problems with that supposition were legion, however. First, Severus mused, no one really understands how genius works and why it makes the leaps it does. A connection that was perfectly obvious to Apollo might never be noticed by anyone else. Of course, they had Apollo, but a much younger and less experienced version of him. Snape could only hope it would be enough.  
  
Second, Zosimus had always had a short attention span, and usually worked on several projects at a time. So instead of trying to find a connection with one potion's effects, they were currently brewing four, the last ones Snape could remember hearing that Zosimus had a hand in. Of course, he realised that his memory could be faulty or that he could have missed reading about one of the master's experiments, and if so, they would possibly be missing a key piece of the puzzle.  
  
Third, as if any more obstacles were needed, was the problem created by the man's almost paranoid secrecy. Snape could understand it, of course, especially considering the uses to which many of his potions were put, but it meant that he might have had experiments going on that no one knew about. Snape also considered it barely possible that it had been Albus and not Zosimus who had initiated the time-travel research, which would mean that all of their current efforts were a colossal waste of time.  
  
There was also always the possibility that the master's attempts had failed, and Snape and Delaia had somehow created something of their own in the course of the accident. Plus, they were encountering serious difficulties in obtaining all the needed ingredients, most of which were not to be found in the student supply cabinets, nor, in many cases, in any reputable potion shop. Snape decided to stop contemplating the odds against them before he gave himself another headache. If, he thought as he stirred the bubbling violet mixture in front of him, they actually managed to pull this off, it would be nothing short of a miracle.  
  
Zosimus peered over Severus' shoulder at the cauldron's contents. "Interesting. What does this one do, again?"  
  
"Causes temporary blindness in anyone who has not ingested the antidote. Wonderful aid in battle, as long as you're not on the receiving end, of course."  
  
"Of course." Zosimus wrinkled his nose. "A little pungent, though. Is it almost finished, Hiro?" They had decided it would be easier to keep using Severus' and Delaia's assumed names in private, to prevent slips in front of other students.  
  
"Another fifteen minutes or so. It needs to be bottled as soon as it starts to congeal, then stored somewhere cool. Extreme heat can set it off."  
  
"Heat . . ., " Zosimus looked thoughtful. "That plays a part in most of these," he gestured at the four cauldrons scattered around the room, representing the different potions they were creating, although the only receptacle currently in use was the one Severus was stirring. Due to the nature of the brews, he preferred to concentrate only on one at a time.  
  
Zosimus arranged his green, cut velvet robes into a pleasing drape as he sat on a nearby stool to watch the final phase of production. Severus had never seen him wear proper Hogwart's black, indeed he wondered if the man even had a set of school robes in his wardrobe. Yet, mysteriously, none of the professors in the three classes they shared had ever mentioned it. The young man seemed, indeed, to have carte blanche around the school. For example, he had had no difficulty procuring a set of empty dungeon rooms for a personal lab two years before, which had been gradually transformed into the impressive facility they were currently using. It was almost as well equipped as Severus' own laboratory, yet Apollo was merely a student.  
  
"How do you do it?," he asked him abruptly. Zosimus, who had pulled out a large, rolled up piece of parchment from a pocket, arched an eyebrow. Severus waved a hand to indicate their surrounding. "All this, and the library privileges, and not wearing the school robes . . . I haven't noticed the discipline being conspicuously lax where any other student is concerned." Actually, that was an understatement. If anything, Severus had found himself reflecting recently that Filch had definitely been born out of his time; he would have loved the somewhat medieval methods of punishment regularly doled out to rule breakers in this Hogwarts.  
  
One boy, a first year, had been caught out past curfew just yesterday. Despite the fact that he had been only a few minutes late returning to his dorm, apparently caused by making the mistake of taking seriously Peeves' directions and of course getting lost, his punishment had been four hours of detention in the sub basement with the current caretaker, Osirus Morgan. Snape had been reading by the fire in the common room when the little Slytherin returned, dripping in disgusting green slime from his assigned duty of mucking out the drains. He had apparently been required to do this by feel alone; the boy had told Severus while still trembling and pale with shock, that Morgan had left after explaining his task, taking the only light source with him. Snape had seen to it that the rather surly school nurse, a brawny Scotsman named McClendon, gave the boy a potion to temporarily calm his nerves and allow him to sleep, although the ultimate psychological consequences of his ordeal were yet to be seen. Snape reminded himself to make sure to do something particularly unpleasant to Morgan before he left. There was punishment, of which he strongly approved, and then there was torture. He was not sure the old Hogwarts had clearly understood the difference.  
  
"How do you get whatever you want, whenever you want it?"  
  
Zosimus smiled and tried giving him his usual artless stare. Apollo knew just how attractive he was, and had no shame about employing his big blue eyes and pink cheeks to convey the impression of injured innocence whenever he thought it might benefit him. Severus admired the effect, but was certainly not fooled.  
  
The younger man sighed, seeing that his friend was not going to be distracted, and assumed a more brisk air. "I drugged them, of course," he said nonchalantly. "Now, I've put together a little list that may help us in our task." He dropped the parchment on the table and took out a vividly purple quill, which he used to put a check beside the word "heat." "I've talked with Delaia about your accident, and isolated seven possible catalysts . . . "  
  
"What do you mean you drugged them?" Severus was not about to be distracted.  
  
Zosimus sighed, "Really Hiro, can we go into this another time? I do think . . ."  
  
"I really want to know." Snape began to ladle small amounts of the Sightless Serum into a rack of vials.  
  
"Very well, if you insist." He gave a small moue of displeasure, but gave in. "I spent an absolutely horrid first year here. Mind you, I'm not saying that perhaps my family didn't spoil me a bit when I was younger--I was the only boy after all--but the shock when I came here . . . ," he shuddered. "It was almost intolerable. The only thing that kept me from running away was the thought of how ashamed my father would be, to have a son who couldn't handle a bit of discipline--which is how he would have seen it, of course."  
  
He sighed and adjusted the already perfect emerald braid on his sleeve. "I've seen this place change people, Hiro, and not in good ways. They arrive so excited and optimistic, ready to begin a new phase of their lives, and then, after a few months, you start to see it. Some withdraw, becoming little more than zombies, just cutting themselves off from as much emotion as they can. Others start jumping at shadows, and pretty soon either leave for home with their nerves in shreds, or become like their tormentors--bullies for the next generation. I just decided that I wasn't going to be that way; I wasn't going to change. So, Hogwarts was going to have to."  
  
"But how do you drug an entire school? And with what?" Snape was fascinated. What kind of eleven year old boy would even conceive of such a plan, much less be able to carry it off?  
  
Zosimus gave him a flirty grin. "That's what I asked myself. I knew what I needed, of course--a good, old fashioned love potion, and one, moreover, that could be keyed to my genetic code. I mean, I could hardly have everybody falling in love with everybody else, could I? It isn't as if no one would have noticed. So, I put the summer after my first year to good use. Initially, I tried to buy something, but that was no good. Love potions are regulated, and I didn't have all the contacts then that I do now." He looked smug. Snape had already discovered some of Zosimus "contacts," as they had had to resort to unorthodox means to obtain supplies for their current endeavour.  
  
"So," Apollo shrugged, "I decided I'd have to make the thing myself. That's how I became interested in potions, actually. Never thought about them much before that, but there were a good number of books at home, and I persuaded father to buy the implements and things I needed by giving him the idea that I was doing a summer study project. It took awhile, but when I came back to Hogwarts in the fall, I brought several additional cases full of vials with me. Then I distracted the house elves as they were preparing for the welcoming feast, and dumped the whole mess in the pumpkin juice containers. Did you know," he asked idly, toying with his golden belt, "there are a few people who actually don't LIKE pumpkin juice? Can you imagine? Anyway, I had to drug a handful of those types on a one-on- one basis, but it really wasn't that difficult. Soon, everyone was my ardent admirer. Of course, I don't actually drug the pumpkin juice any more."  
  
"I'm relived to hear it."  
  
"I have my associates do it for me."  
  
"What?! You mean . . ."  
  
"Oh, yes, that is why I always miss the welcoming feast. I don't want to turn into a narcissist, now do I?"  
  
"YOU DRUGGED ME?"  
  
"I knew you'd take it this way. But really, Hiro, there's nothing to be going on about. The solution is really quite weak, you know, after being mixed with all that juice. It doesn't actually make you love me," he smiled at Snape a little wistfully, "just gives everyone a good feeling whenever I'm about. And some manage to ignore even that. Look at Albus-- you don't see him scattering roses in my path, do you? Only the faculty get the undiluted stuff. Anything less probably wouldn't work on those sadistic bastards."  
  
"You drug the entire school every year," Severus marvelled. Despite himself, he was impressed. The Weasley twin's little jokes just paled by comparison. Leave it to a Slytherin to pull off the greatest practical joke in Hogwart's history, then never bother to tell anyone. A Gryffindor would have shouted it from the rooftops and been caught ages ago, whereas Zosimus had apparently never even mentioned it once he graduated. It had certainly not been part of the school lore that Snape had ever heard.  
  
Zosimus was smiling at him fondly. "I can give you an antidote, if you want. Although I doubt it will make much difference. As I said, I keep it quite mild for the students, and besides," he regarded Snape through long golden lashes, "I think you might like me a little anyway, wouldn't you Hiro?"  
  
Severus finished putting the potion in vials and stoppered them securely. His long fingers were steady as he worked, as much so as his voice when he replied, "of course, it would be positively unfashionable of me to feel otherwise, wouldn't it? Now," he reached for Zosimus' parchment, "about those catalysts . . ." 


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six  
  
Delaia watched Geoffrey and his circle out of the corner of her eye as she passed through the Gryffindor common room. She did not hang about the chamber, playing exploding snap or wizard's chess like many of the other students, for obvious reasons. Sev had threatened her with painful dismemberment if she didn't keep a low profile, and there had been a look in his eyes at the time that made her doubt that he was kidding. Nonetheless, she could not avoid at least passing through on the way to and from her rooms, and somehow, Geoffrey always seemed to be there. He didn't approach her, but his eyes followed her wherever she went, and he and his group of ghouls were always whispering things just outside of her hearing. They were plotting something, she just knew it.  
  
Thanks to the insulting way Sev and Apollo had decided to cover up the circumstances surrounding the duel, Geoffrey had taken a good deal of ribbing, and not all of it had come from Slytherin. It had not taken Delaia long living in Gryffindor to realise that there were serious divisions in the ranks. In fact, she had begun to believe that some Gryffindors, if asked to name their worst enemies, would have listed more members of their own house than any other.  
  
She had no idea if this was normal or not; all Severus wanted to talk about was potions, even though it was obvious to Delaia, at least, that their odds of recreating the Golden Elixir anytime soon were about the same as apparating to Mars. In any case, his preoccupation meant that she could not rely on him for information about Hogwart's politics, and Beauxbatons had not left her at all prepared for the brutality lurking just under the surface of the British school. Not that there hadn't been petty jealousies and, of course, plenty of inner-house rivalry in France, but for sheer bloody-mindedness Hogwarts took the prize.  
  
Albus was also being less than helpful, managing, despite the fact that they occupied the same room, to be elsewhere most of the time. She actually saw less of him than either Sev or Apollo, and they weren't even in her house. The problem, Delaia decided, as she made her way out of the portrait hole while making sure not to turn her back on Geoffrey's group even for a second, was that Albus had some kind of god complex. Not that he thought himself perfect or anything, but he did seem to feel somehow RESPONSIBLE for many things that really weren't his concern.  
  
A good example was the whole issue of her safety. Zosimus had told her reassuringly that she didn't have to worry about anything--Albus had promised them that he would look after her, and although Apollo seemed to have some issues with the Gryffindor prefect, he did not question his ability. The part that enraged Delaia was that it never seemed to occur to any of them that she did not, in fact, need a keeper. She was a duelling champion, for God's sake, and was probably better at self-defence than any student at Hogwarts, including her roommate. Albus would emerge as a great duellist, true, but that was at some distant point in the future. Although he had a pair of practice platforms in his rooms taking up much needed space (with two beds in there now, it actually required climbing over things just to move around) she had yet to see him use them. As she well knew, good technique took not only ability but regular drill, which was why she was currently carrying his unused platforms in a pocket of her robes. She intended to find a place to practice where she would not be observed. If Geoffrey did make the mistake of trying anything, he was not going to find her unprepared.  
  
Despite the fact that she did not need a guardian, she could usually look around and find Albus lurking somewhere nearby. He always seemed to be just down a corridor when she was walking between classes, looking up a book whenever she ventured into the library, even chatting casually to the Gryffindor quidditch captain when she took an unplanned shortcut across the playing field after Herbology one day. Ironic then, how little they actually managed to talk. He was either absorbed in homework or already asleep when she returned from a night in the lab with Sev, or else he came in long after she had given up and gone to bed. They sat next to each other three meals a day in the great hall, but of course, no conversation was possible there that you didn't want half the table to hear. Meals were, in fact, her least favourite times of day, as Geoffrey, due to his status as junior prefect, sat right across from her.  
  
Delaia had noticed Albus' penchant for taking on other people's problems in more than just her own case. There was the time he accompanied a Gryffindor first year to detention, and sat in silence as the boy polished all the silver in the trophy room, even though it took hours. Yet the school caretaker, whatever his name was, was supposed to supervise the detention, not a prefect. Albus also made a point of talking to the first years regularly about what they had been required to do for the upper classmen for whom they were slaving. He had admonished several sixth and even one seventh year for being too hard on them, and had threatened to go to Randolph McGonagall, the Gryffindor Head of House, if one boy's situation did not improve. Not surprisingly, the first years loved him, and Delaia was sure that someone did need to do this sort of thing, but shouldn't it have been McGonagall? Yet, as long as Albus was willing to take on the burden, naturally the man would let him. How the boy ever managed to find time to go to class or to do his homework was a mystery.  
  
Delaia looked around carefully as she exited the castle through its main doors, but for once, her silent shadow appeared to be missing. Not that she minded if Albus wanted to talk with her, or even to watch her duel and throw out a few comments occasionally, but this whole watching-her-from- afar-and-saying-nothing routine was getting a bit creepy. She was therefore glad to find herself alone as she skirted the quidditch field and headed for the Forbidden Forest.  
  
Delaia knew the forest's reputation, it was one of the few things Sev had bothered to warn her about, but she wasn't planning to go very far in and, anyway, one of the whole points about being a good duellist was being able to deal with the unexpected. Besides, she really didn't have a choice-- practising anywhere in or right around the school was too risky; the students always seemed to be wherever they weren't supposed to go, making nowhere completely safe from prying eyes. The forest also had the additional advantage of allowing her to drop the glamour for awhile. It had become slightly easier to maintain over time, but was still tiring. Despite the claustrophobic confines of Albus' overstuffed room, she actually spent a lot of time there, as it was one of the few places that she could be free of her disguise.  
  
Delaia ended up going further in than she had planned, largely because there was no suitable clearing where she could set up near the forest's edge. By the time she finally found one, the trees had closed behind her in a thick ring, making it highly unlikely that any of her spells would be visible from the castle. The duelling platforms were easy enough to set up, once she had enlarged them back to their usual size. They were a bit primitive compared to what she was used to, but not unbearably so--in reality, there wasn't enough to a duelling platform for much in the way of advancement to be possible.  
  
There were several ways to use them, but as she was practising alone, Delaia set one against the trunk of a nearby tree and the other directly opposite leaning on a large rock. Technically, she should have had four platforms, each representing an adversary, to give her the maximum workout while also sharpening her multiple opponent skills. She had a sneaking suspicion that she was going to need those, but, as Hogwarts did not concentrate on duelling techniques nearly as much as Beauxbatons, there were no school platforms available for student use outside of class. So, for now, she would make use of Albus' two, and assume that Geoffrey and his group of thugs would provide her soon enough with all the extra practice she would need. Whether Sev wanted to accept it or not, something was eventually going to have to be done about them.  
  
Delaia started with a few warm ups, then began on defence--never her favourite thing but certainly necessary at the moment--instructing the platforms to throw a random series of curses at her. Defending from two directions at once was always difficult, made more so in this case because of the placement of the platforms directly opposite each other. They would often send out not only their own spells, but ricochets of those Delaia had avoided from their twin. She was rustier than she had thought, but eventually managed to find a comfortable zone and slowly ratcheted the speed up to the platforms' maximum. A few hexes landed, all of which were deliberately weak--they were meant to send off just enough energy to let you know when you missed something--but she blocked most of them.  
  
It was only when she began to run out of light that Delaia decided to call an end to her session, feeling tired but much better for the exercise. She had just shrunk the second platform back to a convenient size when a hex flew right past her ear, exploding loudly against the rock next to her. It was quickly followed by a series of powerful hexes that came pouring at her from somewhere beyond the trees. None of them landed--Delaia was thankful that she'd spent much of this session on defence--but the mystery assailant was smart enough to keep to the trees, making it impossible for her to attack in turn.  
  
Delaia realised after a couple of seconds that she might just have a real problem on her hands. Not that she didn't know plenty of ways to repel an unseen attacker, that was standard third year drill at Beauxbatons, but most of the usual spells wouldn't work in this case. She couldn't set fire to the trees in the area to distract him, for instance, or conjure a smoke screen to hide behind, because both might be seen from the castle. In addition to not wanting to hear a smarmy "I told you so" from Sev, she also could not afford to have a group from Howarts come running to the rescue when she was as tired as she was at present. The glamour took a good deal of energy to cast as well as to maintain, and she couldn't do it and defend at the same time, so how to explain her appearance to either students or teachers?  
  
Delaia began, after only a few minutes, to seriously wish she had cut her practice session short. Not only was the light really beginning to fail, but whoever was throwing these curses wasn't fooling around with minor spells, and the energy necessary to divert them was quickly exhausting her. Ok, she told herself, don't panic. You were trained to be able to think under pressure, so work this out. It really wasn't very difficult. Her first year defence class had posed the question, if you are trapped where you can't attack, and can't hold a defensive position indefinitely or expect rescue, what do you do? Delaia had answered it correctly then, one of the few to put practicality before some warped sense of honour, and she did the same now. She sent a sudden, wide-spread barrage of hexes in the direction of the last few curses thrown at her, then dropped to the ground, rolled behind the rock for cover, hopped back to her feet and ran like hell.  
  
The fact that she was pelting into the Forbidden Forest instead of out of it did not immediately register, and even when it did she kept going. Another first year defence lesson--if at all possible, deal with one crisis at a time. She intended to lose her pursuer-- and judging by the occasional sounds behind her as someone stumbled along in the almost black forest, she was definitely being pursued--then figure out how to get back to Hogwarts. She just hoped Albus and the others had sense enough not to make too much of her disappearance; she could take care of herself, as long as they didn't panic and do something stupid. Considering that one of them was Severus, she wasn't too worried. He might be a bastard about half the time, but she had to admit, he was usually a level-headed one.  
  
Pelting through the trees grew old fast, especially after the fifth or sixth time a branch scraped painfully across her face. Her attacker, judging by the amount of crashing she heard from behind, was not having an easy go of it either, but did seem to be slowly gaining. Delaia was able to cast a sight enhancement charm once she no longer had to dodge curses-- apparently whoever was following her had never learned how to hex on the run--but at her current pace, she still managed to stumble into things. Ultimately, she decided, there was something to be said for the inverse of the old muggle saying about the best offence; in other words, bugger first year defence tactics, she wanted to hex someone.  
  
Her chance came as the forest floor began to dip as she ran deeper into its heart. The trees grew larger here, with branches so thick above her head that it was almost pitch black even with the help of her charm. Of course, lighting her wand was out of the question as it would mark her exact position for her assailant. Reasoning that whoever was behind her was probably having the same problems, Delaia took a chance and ducked behind the huge trunk of an ancient tree, stopping to wait breathlessly for the sounds of pursuit to draw closer. She caste a weak blasting spell in the direction she had been headed, and it gave, she thought, a fair impression of her previously stumbling gait as it ricocheted off tree trunks and faded into the distance. Delaia gripped her wand and waited.  
  
A few seconds later, a dark form passed in front of her, so intent on the pursuit that it never saw her nor had a chance to avoid the stupefy spell she cast. When it crashed to the ground almost at her feet, Delaia sighed in relief, lighted her wand and dropped to her knees beside the inert form. Turning it over, she gazed down in disbelief. It was a Hogwart's student robe, but there was no person inside it. Instead, someone had conjured and then animated a couple of pillows, making a crude but effective decoy. About the same time that realisation dawned, Delaia looked up to find a wand all of an inch from her nose, and a pair of triumphant blue eyes gleaming at her out of the darkness.  
  
"Gotcha!"  
  
Delaia suddenly found herself, to her utter amazement, swept into a passionate kiss. It wasn't the most practised of her life, but made up for it in sheer enthusiasm. It didn't last long, however, as her pursuer quickly got himself under control and stepped back, lowering his wand. That, of course, was a mistake.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" Delaia caught the very nice yew wand that flew out of his hand, and stashed it up her sleeve.  
  
The expression on the face of the young man standing in front of her changed immediately from embarrassment to alarm, as Delaia advanced on him with an evil grin. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, Albus, but you don't get off nearly that easily." 


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven  
  
  
  
Knockturn Alley hadn't changed, Snape noted in disgust. It still had the same odour--a slight smell of damp and rot, yet under laid by something else, something much fouler than mere natural decay. Most people never noticed it, being too caught up in the myriad nefarious practices that had lured the underground of the magical community there for centuries, but Severus had a potion-brewer's heightened sense of smell. Apparently so did Zosimus, whose nose twitched in distaste as he commented that he had always thought this must be what hell smelled like. Snape had to agree, and it occurred to him, not for the first time, to wonder why that location was always depicted as hot. He remembered a line from some muggle poem that much more clearly reflected his own attitude, "I think I know enough of hate, to say that for that purpose ice is also great, and would suffice."  
  
"What?" Zosimus looked at him in bewilderment. Severus wasn't sure-- muggle studies had never been his strong suit--but he vaguely thought there was a chance that Robert Frost had yet to pen those lines, or any others for that matter.  
  
"Nothing. How much longer?" Severus drew his nondescript black cloak about him and stared out at the frigid street beyond. Why did it always seem colder in Knockturn Alley than anywhere else, he wondered in irritation. It was only early September, yet, while the weather was still pleasant enough in Scotland, here in London his breath was visible in front of his face and a chill ran up his spine--although the latter might, he admitted, have had more to do with their current undertaking than the temperature.  
  
"They should have been here already," Apollo commented, looking about nervously. Snape had been amused to discover that the self-assured manner his companion assumed around Hogwarts had been noticeably absent on their current expedition. But then, he had no security blanket here, did he? It was not, Snape thought with relish, possible to drug the entire world. He wondered if that was why Zosimus had become something of a recluse later in life--not able to control the world, so he withdrew from it? Seemed a bit extreme, but then, Snape could also see the appeal. The idea of simply disappearing somewhere, to a cozy little hideaway where he could work without all the distractions that life continually threw at him had long been a dream of his own. Still, it would do Zosimus good to live a little-- the boy had been far too sheltered. Of course, Snape thought as a group of shadowy figures came down the alley towards them, there was such a thing as too much experience, and he pushed the unresisting young man a little further into the gloom behind him.  
  
Severus was without glamour that evening, as it had been decided that his normal appearance would be more intimidating, should he need to engender fear in anyone. From what Zosimus had told him, it seemed a good possibility that they would require every advantage. The master's contacts in Knockturn Alley had been unwilling to entrust the extremely illegal substance they had recently acquired for him to the usual courier, insisting instead that Zosimus take delivery of it personally.  
  
"They've never done this before," Apollo had said, catching his lower lip between his teeth as he perused the message that arrived by owl shortly after their completion of the Sightless Serum. Snape didn't like it, but there was no alternative but to agree--they had finished the two potions they could make with ingredients already on hand or those, like essence of lethifold and basilisk's venom, that could be bought from less-than- reputable shops. The only way to obtain one vital ingredient for the last two elixirs, however, had been to resort to the dangerous underground of the smugglers, as even the more notorious store owners drew the line at stocking what they needed.  
  
The Tizheruk was a large, snake-like creature that ranged the arctic waters around the North Pole, occasionally venturing as far south as Alaska where it had become part of Eskimo lore. Its rarity was such that, when Newt Scamander eventually got around to writing Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them sometime after the turn of the century, he wouldn't even bother to include it. The point being, Snape supposed, that very few people actually wanted to find it, as those who did tended not to enjoy, or indeed usually survive, the experience. Its blood, although extremely toxic even for a sea serpent, had an extremely useful stabilising effect in volatile potions, and the ones they were about to attempt to brew were impossible without it. The blood had long been illegal to sell or even possess, however, partly as an incentive to keep the foolhardy from throwing their lives away in an attempt to obtain it, but also because, once in the bloodstream, its venom was untraceable. It had been, in centuries when the creatures were somewhat less rare, the poison of choice for practitioners of the dark arts.  
  
The question was, of course, did the smugglers even have it, or was their request simply a set up for an ambush? Being the cynic that he was, Severus had already decided that the odds favoured the latter. After all, Zosimus had used them on a few previous occasions, and had never failed to promptly pay the exorbitant sums they demanded. Severus had therefore taken a few precautions; he only hoped they would be sufficient.  
  
The shadows coalesced into three men, at least he assumed they were male; he couldn't be sure as all he had to go on was height. Their bodies were completely swathed in dark, hooded, floor-length cloaks that reminded him uncomfortably of those worn by the death-eaters. Zosimus cowered behind him, probably thinking that this part of the potion-brewer's world he could do without, and let Severus control the meeting.  
  
The lead figure had a deep voice and, judging by the hand he extended, which Snape pointedly ignored, was cadaverously thin. "Do you have it?" Severus assumed he meant the large amount of gold that was required in exchange for less than an ounce of the precious venom.  
  
"When I see the merchandise."  
  
Snape was surprised when the figure duly passed over a small vial of dark substance, which, judging by smell, seemed correct. It was not an ingredient that he regularly used, however, and since it was Zosimus' gold paying for the transaction, he turned to pass it to the younger man to get his opinion. A stupid move, he almost immediately realised, as the lead figure took the opportunity of his momentary distraction to seize his wrists, while shouting at his companions not to let the other get away. Snape twisted and grabbed Apollo's arm, but found, when he tried to apparate them out of there, that some sort of field prevented it. That was about the time he realised who the "smugglers" had to be. In this time period, the only people with portable anti-apparition wards were . . .  
  
"It's the Ministry!," he hissed at Zosimus. They exchanged a brief glance, then aimed their wands at different points down the street, setting off the casks of potions they had previously placed in unobtrusive spots. Their location was almost immediately wreathed in fiery red and violet smoke, the antidotes for which Snape had personally spent most of the afternoon brewing and which they had both ingested before leaving. The aurors vainly tried to keep their hold on he and Apollo, but their efforts were seriously hindered by their sudden inability to see anything around them, and by a feeling of extreme disorientation. Snape smiled--good thing they'd been brewing battle potions for the last few days, ones that, moreover, were unknown and therefore uncounterable in this period.  
  
In the resulting confusion, the two potion-brewers managed to tear away and lose themselves in the maze of dark streets branching off Knockturn Alley. As soon as they reached the end of the wards the Ministry had set up, they apparated back to the edge of Hogsmeade, out of breath and, in Severus' case at least, seriously disturbed. He should have seen that coming; no reason to get careless simply because Voldemort was not yet masterminding things. Had he and Zosimus been captured, it would have almost certainly meant an extended residence in Azkaban, which he doubted was any more pleasurable in this era than in his own. They also, of course, had to now come up with an alternative means of acquiring the needed venom, since it seemed Zosimus' old contacts had been put out of business.  
  
"Well, that could have gone better," Apollo noted dryly, looking completely incongruous leaning against a tree in brown satin robes decorated with ridiculous golden tassels all down the front. They were, Severus had been appalled to discover, the most sombre clothes the man owned, and he had flatly refused to wear a set of Snape's black robes. "I look dreadful in black, Hiro, and anyway, it isn't as if they don't already know perfectly well who they're dealing with. All they care about is that I bring the money; what I wear is up to me." Severus wondered what they were going to do now that the Ministry, in all likelihood, also knew that Hogwart's model student was attempting to purchase ingredients which, in their perspective, could only be used for the dark arts. He turned a calculating eye on Zosimus, who began to look somewhat apprehensive.  
  
"Is something wrong, Hiro?"  
  
"Oh, no, just that we'll probably have half the aurors in the Ministry on Hogwart's doorstep tomorrow ready to search your rooms and arrest you for possession of controlled substances. Other than that, I can't think of a thing."  
  
"So, you think they recognised me then?"  
  
Severus sighed. "I don't know. It was dark and you were in the shadows but," he looked pointedly at Zosimus' fashionable attire, "we have to assume that they did. But then, they already knew enough to send the owl arranging the meeting to you, so obviously your contacts sold you out. Of course, you haven't invented veritaserum yet, so we can always say they were lying since we weren't actually caught in the act. However, you are going to need an alibi, and it has to be something stronger than I or any other Slytherin with whom you are known to be friends can provide. We'll need Albus."  
  
The plan Snape concocted was simple: use one of Hogsmeade's post owls to take a letter to Albus, requesting that he and Delaia join them at the pub. Then proceed to get very rowdy in the Three Broomsticks, pick what would be taken for a drunken quarrel with the two Gryffindors, trade a few hexes, and thereby ensure that everyone remembered where they had been that night. It wasn't even likely to lose house points, as upper level students were allowed free access to the nearby magical village on Friday nights and weekends, and any small altercations were normally winked at--as long as no one ended up in the infirmary for too many days thereafter. So, naturally, Severus thought, the fact that it was a perfect way out of the serious situation they faced almost insured that something had to go wrong. Two somethings, in fact.  
  
The first was the annoying reality that no one seemed to know where Albus was. The owl had returned without a letter from him, looking as abashed as an owl can. Severus was surprised, having never known a magically trained bird to fail to deliver a letter, but it returned with his note still securely fastened about its tiny leg. Snape had hoped the creature was just having an off day, but, when a second owl had the same problem, he began seriously to worry. If Albus was anywhere in or near Hogwart's castle, the letter should have reached him. So where could he be? And why did he have to take this particular moment to disappear?  
  
Severus, although concerned and irritated, decided that they could still salvage the situation. They only needed to find some other Gryffindors, or for that matter Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws or even Slytherins in a pinch, with whom to publicly quarrel. However, when he made his way back to the Three Broomsticks after his last visit to the post office, he found Zosimus acting very strangely. The young man was still seated at the prominent place at the bar where Severus had left him, along with instructions to talk to as many people as possible and generally make his presence memorable. As soon as Snape walked in, however, he jumped up and demanded to return to Hogwarts immediately. Snape ordered a drink and dragged him off to a small table where they could talk in semi-privacy, but found Zosimus far too agitated to listen to the revised plan he had devised.  
  
"No! You don't understand." The man looked almost panicked. "I didn't think we'd be gone so long--it should have only taken a few minutes to make the exchange. I didn't plan to be out half the night!"  
  
"What possible difference can it make?" Severus lowered his voice and leaned towards his friend, who was practically bouncing in his chair in the desire to be gone. "If you're worried about the storeroom, don't be. I have everything . . . questionable . . . that we've been using, along with the rest of the potions, heavily warded. The aurors will never find them."  
  
Zosimus waved that away, as if it was a matter of minor concern if they were caught in possession of Basilisk blood or not. "I'm not worried about the lab, Hiro; I trust you. But I have to get back to my rooms, at least for a few minutes."  
  
"Impossible, and you know it. People have to see you here for an hour or two, so they can swear that we spent the evening as normal students."  
  
For some reason, Zosimus seemed to find this hysterically amusing. He muttered something that sounded like, "oh, they'll see me all right," then jumped to his feet. "I have to go," he told Severus, suddenly serious, and actually began to weave his way toward the door.  
  
Snape sat frozen in disbelief for a few seconds, before jumping up and going after him. He caught up with him at the door but, when he had to stand aside to let several Hufflepuffs enter, Apollo used the opportunity to pull away and slip out the exit. Snape again overtook him in the street and pulled him into the pool of light provided by a nearby hanging lantern, hoping someone would later remember seeing them there. "Have you gone mad? You can't just go running back to the castle, you HAVE to have an alibi!"  
  
"I don't care." Zosimus looked mutinous.  
  
"You'll care if you end up in Azkaban!"  
  
"There are worse things," the young man remarked cryptically.  
  
Snape snorted, unable to believe the way his night was going. "You might think differently after you've been there awhile."  
  
Zosimus sighed, looked like he intended to say something, then glanced at the magical chronometer on his wrist and gave a squeak worthy of a house elf. "I have to go!," he repeated, and disapparated.  
  
Of course, Snape knew that, even in 1855, it was impossible to apparate into Hogwarts. There was no Voldemort to make such security restrictions necessary, but it had long been standing policy anyway, primarily designed to keep upper-level students from easily smuggling late-night visitors into their dorm rooms. It meant that Zosimus must have apparated just down the road, and why he would bother to expend the energy to do so when he would still have to walk most of the way back was beyond Severus' ability to imagine. Since he didn't know exactly where along the extensive border of Hogwarts the vexatious creature had decided to reappear, however, there was no realistic way to catch him. Snape allowed himself a few moments to ponder why fate seemed to harbour such an intense grudge against him, then turned his mind to using most of the long walk back to the castle to devise an alternative plan for getting Zosimus out of danger.  
  
* * *  
  
"Valentin, you really should give me back my wand," Albus swallowed and tried a weak smile. "We're in the middle of the Forbidden Forest . . . and it is forbidden for good reason, you know."  
  
Delaia let his wand twirl thoughtfully through her fingers. "That didn't seem to worry you when you were chasing me in here just now."  
  
Albus looked about nervously. "I, er, might have become somewhat . . . over zealous." He stumbled slightly over a tree root as he attempted to back away from her steady advance. "I was watching you practice for awhile . . . you're very good."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Yes, well, I just thought that it might be interesting to see how you performed against a real opponent . . . the platforms being rather . . . predictable." He backed into a large tree and stopped, looking around as if hoping for a miraculous escape.  
  
Delaia paused a few feet away, no longer smiling. "Oh, I see. And it wouldn't have even occurred to you that, if you gave me a good scare, I might stick a little closer to Hogwarts from now on?"  
  
Albus tried another smile, but it ended up a grimace as her wand pressed into his throat. "Actually, no . . . I don't recall thinking that at all."  
  
Delaia let her wand slide slowly around his neck to rest against the back of his high collar. He was wearing a very uninspired combination of white shirt and black pants, his robe still lying on the ground where she had hexed it. Of course, she thought, why would Albus wear anything remotely improper, even under his robes where no one would see? Other students wore the colours of their favourite quidditch teams, while Zosimus pranced around in satins and velvets, his robes dripping with intricate embroidery and hand-made lace, but none of that for the oh-so-proper Gryffindor prefect. The fact that she knew his fashion sense to get better--or at least wilder--with age did not improve her mood at the moment. His clothes were a symptom, she decided, an expression of the fact that he was a sixteen-year-old boy going on a hundred and sixty, without having had any fun in between the two. She said as much, being too irritated for discretion.  
  
"I'm seventeen," Albus said, his voice slightly offended.  
  
"Oh, well, do excuse me. That makes it quite alright then. And I suppose you were up to all kinds of pranks when you WERE sixteen? And you probably dressed in colourful, normal clothes instead of these . . . ," she momentarily couldn't think of anything bad enough to describe the plain little costume he wore, "mortician's attire? So, essentially, you've just become so serious and RESPONSIBLE since your birthday, then?"  
  
Albus was beginning to look at her as one might a madwoman who needed to be humoured. "Valentin," he began in a tone reminiscent of a teacher starting a lecture, "I realise now that I probably scared you a bit . . . for which I apologise," he added hastily, seeing the flash in her eyes, "but I think we should consider that there are many hazardous things in these woods and . . . "  
  
Delaia pressed the back of her wand against his neck and jerked him to within inches of her enraged gaze. She wasn't sure if it was the tone, the diction or his incredible obliviousness that was the more infuriating. "Yes, there are Albus, and you're looking at one of them."  
  
"Valentin . . . Delaia . . .," he seemed to be having problems breathing, "I . . . "  
  
"So, you weren't deliberately trying to scare me?," she asked in a dangerous whisper.  
  
"No, I assure you . . ."  
  
"I don't believe you. I think you're lying to me, Albus, and I really hate that. You owe a forfeit for that, and another for losing the duel." She smiled, "What to do, what to do . . . " She knew what she'd like to do, of course, but they WERE in the most dangerous part of the Forbidden Forest in what was fast becoming the middle of the night. Damn.  
  
"We have to get out of here." Her eyes narrowed at the look of relief that passed over Albus' face, "although I WILL be collecting your forfeits later. However," she slipped a hand around his neck and twined her fingers deliberately through his hair, "there is one little matter we need to clear up right now."  
  
She pulled him slowly to her, running soft fingertips down his neck, watching in delight as a blush suddenly stained his cheeks. "I thought you might like to learn how to do it properly." Cradling his face in her hands, she looked deeply into his eyes. He looked a bit wary, but did not attempt to pull away. Her lips parted and she kissed him slowly, savouring the moment but fully expecting his usual reserve to come crashing down at any moment. She was astonished, then, when a few seconds later his arms suddenly came up and he pulled her tightly against him, while deepening the kiss.  
  
His blue eyes sparkled at her expression when they finally broke apart. "Well, I always was a quick study." Delaia stared at him, feeling rather as she might if Snape suddenly declared an intention to take up needlework, or Zosimus started dressing in denim. This simply wasn't the way the world was supposed to work. What had happened to the shy teenager?  
  
"What's wrong?" Albus asked, his lips quirking. "Was I not expected to enjoy that? Was it supposed to be a punishment of some kind? If so, I must remember to upset you more often."  
  
Delaia, thinking a little discretion might be called for at this point, decided to back up a few steps. Albus followed.  
  
"Was I was meant to go running off into the forest, having learned my lesson not to upset the great duellist lest she hex me?" He held out empty hands as he moved slowly towards her. "Well, you could hex me now." His eyes flashed, "or then again, maybe not. Expelliarmus!" Delaia stared as two wands, hers and Albus', flew through the air. He caught them easily in his left hand; in his right, she noticed in disbelief, he somehow already held one of what looked like mahogany.  
  
There was only one explanation. "You carry TWO wands?!"  
  
Albus shrugged, slipping his ash model back up his sleeve, "Why not? Aurors do. I'm surprised they didn't teach that trick at Beauxbatons."  
  
"You had another wand all the time! So why . . . ," she could come up with no words to adequately describe his performance, "all THAT?"  
  
Albus smiled lazily, "Because I wanted to see what you would do. Don't worry though," he handed back her wand with a small bow, the effect of the courtly gesture spoiled somewhat by the wicked grin that accompanied it. "I'll still be happy to pay my forfeits."  
  
Delaia found herself, for the first time in her life, actually rendered speechless. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight  
  
Severus crashed through the Slytherin common room and stalked down the hall to the ridiculously well-warded prefect's chambers. Really, he thought as he slowly broke down wards that would have done justice to Gringott's, the man was paranoid even for a Slytherin. He wondered where he could possibly be. If he was inside, he must surely realise what Snape was doing--there were several warning wards that he had countered just a fraction too late-- but there was no response. Fine, then he would find Snape waiting for him when he returned from whatever lark he was on. And to think that, up until this evening, despite the man's unorthodox manner, Severus had at least had a grudging respect for his intelligence. Now, with aurors possibly already on their way, he had panicked and shown himself to have no more sense than Neville bloody Longbottom . . .  
  
"Hello, Hiro." As he finally managed to enter the large suite of rooms Zosimus had appropriated for himself, Snape found the man lounging in a garish purple and gold dressing gown by the fire. "I wondered how long you'd be."  
  
"If you knew I was here, why didn't you take down the damn wards?" Severus threw himself into the chair opposite and glared at him. Then became even more enraged when he immediately began to feel guilty about it. Damn the man and his potion brewing! "I want that antidote, Zosimus, tonight. Brewing it will give you something to do until we're dragged off to Azkaban. I'm not about to spend the next twenty years in that place worried over your stupidity because I've been drugged out of all reason."  
  
"Hiro . . ."  
  
"I'm serious!" Snape kept his control, but just barely. The petulant look on the other man's face was enough to drive a saint--which Severus had never pretended, even to himself, to be--completely berserk. "I just spent the entire trip back here concerned to the point of distraction lest you were being tortured by the aurors or killed by some of your 'associates,' even though I knew it to be absurd! I told myself that, for someone with your family connections, naturally they'll take their time and put a case together before daring to accuse you, but I nonetheless almost ruptured myself running back up here just to be sure dear Zosimus' abject stupidity wasn't causing him any discomfort. This is INTOLERABLE and it stops tonight."  
  
"But, Hiro . . "  
  
"Shut up! Just give me the damned antidote! If you're going to insist on acting like a raving maniac, I intend to be able to watch you being hauled away to the punishment your arrogance so richly deserves with a proper amount of enjoyment!"  
  
"If you would allow me to get a word in . . . "  
  
"This isn't a conversation, Apollo," Snape snarled, grabbing him by his absurd lace covered lapels. "I want the antidote RIGHT NOW. I am not staying here arguing with you all night, and I intend to be in my right mind when I leave."  
  
Instead of looking properly cowed--at Snape's tone and manner Longbottom would have passed out already--the creature was dimpling at him! "But, Hiro," he practically cooed, "that's what I've been trying to tell you. You ARE in your right mind. I gave you the antidote this afternoon in your tea." He wrapped an absolutely flabbergasted Snape in a warm embrace. "Severus!," the annoying creature simpered, "I didn't know you cared!"  
  
* * *  
  
"Point me," Albus held out his palm, and they watched as his wand slowly oriented itself northwards. "The castle's this way, but we'll have a hike to get back."  
  
"So, are you going to take house points from yourself for being out after curfew?," Delaia teased. "Ooh, just think, the perfect prefect is breaking all kinds of rules tonight."  
  
"You sound like Peeves. Anyway, I don't know where you obtained the idea that I never break rules. I just prefer not to get caught."  
  
"So your noble persona is all an act, is it?"  
  
Albus looked pensive. "No," he finally decided, "I think I am rather noble, actually."  
  
It took Delaia a minute to realise he was joking. "I'm serious," she protested.  
  
"So am I." Albus gave her his best leer while helping her climb over a fallen tree trunk that barred their path. "I am escorting you back to the castle like a gentleman at present, aren't I? Wouldn't you be afraid to be out here with me, totally at my mercy, if I were not the noble Gryffindor?"  
  
Delaia laughed. "At your mercy?! You LOST the duel, Albus, remember?"  
  
"Only because I let you win."  
  
"Let me," Delaia sputtered, "You just used a trick! In a fair fight . . . "  
  
"But people don't fight fair, Delaia," Albus told her, suddenly serious. "Do you know what your problem is?" Oh great, she thought, we've reached THAT stage already. He sighed at her expression. "You call me noble, but you're the one always doing the upright, and therefore completely predictable, thing."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"The situation with Geoffrey, for example. You're waiting around, being all NOBLE," he looked at her pointedly, "for him to make the first move. I saw you this afternoon, remember? You were practising only defensive spells. And on the stairs the other day--you didn't follow up your advantage, you just did enough to counter the immediate threat. Yet he was at your mercy, completely petrified. You could have done whatever you wanted."  
  
"In a hall full of students?"  
  
"Well, that didn't stop you from hexing him to begin with," Albus commented dryly. "And you can't tell me you haven't had plenty of opportunities to deal with him since. It isn't as if he avoids you. You could have lured him off somewhere and hexed the hell out of him, had you wanted."  
  
"And that would be your suggestion?"  
  
Albus smiled slightly. "Certainly not. If I thought that would do the trick, I'd have done it myself years ago. There are other, more subtle, ways to deal with problems than hexing everything in sight. My point," he said at her outraged expression, "is that you are too noble to think of them."  
  
"And you aren't?" Delaia snorted in disbelief. "I suppose you could get rid of Geoffrey anytime you wanted--without attacking him?"  
  
"I've managed to thwart him rather well up until now." Albus looked smug.  
  
"Oh, really?" Delaia made no attempt whatever to look convinced. God, the man was conceited!  
  
Albus turned to her, the light from his wand tip playing over his face, giving it a somewhat sinister look. He raised an eyebrow at her, "You think I can't?"  
  
Delaia shrugged. "Oh, I think you could deal with him," she replied honestly. "But only by what you've been doing--watching his every move and trying to counter his actions before he makes them. Or," she added, noting his suddenly narrowed gaze, "by hexing him into next week. I'm sure you could do that if you wanted. But neither of those is a permanent solution, is it? Nor," she added pointedly, "are they any better than what I've been doing."  
  
Albus stopped and crossed his arms, his expression suddenly unreadable. "So, I'm incapable of thinking of a way to permanently deal with Geoffrey's threat without hexing him?"  
  
"Yes, basically."  
  
He suddenly smiled, "want to wager on that?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Wager--bet--hazard something on my inability to remove the threat of that moron without threatening him, hexing him, getting him expelled, or otherwise attacking him."  
  
"You're serious."  
  
"Absolutely." He looked suddenly mischievous. "What's the matter--feeling a little less sure of yourself?"  
  
Delaia grinned, and cursed a hinkypunk out of her path. "Oh, no, I was just feeling sorry for you. You owe me two forfeits already . . . I wouldn't like to add to the total."  
  
"I'll risk it," Albus said sarcastically.  
  
Delaia shrugged. "Your loss. So, what shall the wager be?"  
  
Albus smiled at her lecherously.  
  
"ALBUS!"  
  
"Well, if you're so SURE I can't do it . . . then you aren't risking anything, are you?"  
  
Delaia was glad that the night was so dark--she hadn't blushed in years, but she was fairly sure her face was aflame at the moment. "Fine," she told him disdainfully. "Just don't blame me when you lose."  
  
Albus smiled at her gently. "Delaia, I never lose unless I want to."  
  
* * * 


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine  
  
  
  
The next week was hell for Severus. He could not murder Zosimus and feed his body to the giant squid, which was beyond doubt what the wretch deserved, because he needed him to recreate the Golden Elixir. Yet it was obvious the man could not be trusted. Snape did not believe for an instant that claptrap about him having already been given the antidote to Zosimus' little love potion. He could not have cared less about other people's sexual orientation--it was their business, plain and simple, and, like most things about his fellow men, his sole concern was that they not bother him with it. However, he had not reached 36 years of age without knowing his personal preference, which was not likely to have changed overnight. Since, much as he might have liked to deny it, there were some . . . minor . . . feelings on his part for Apollo, then obviously they had been artificially induced. Yet finding an antidote without knowing which potion had been used on him was a daunting task. Snape had already ingested all of the standard remedies, not one of which had made the slightest difference.  
  
Friday afternoon, therefore, found him in the ignominious position of sitting in the library, surrounded by lurid pink and red books crammed with enough love potions, charms and spells to insure world-wide mayhem were they ever to be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace. No wonder the wizarding world was in the shape it was, with the amount of effort wasted on this sort of drivel. Most of the books that were piled around his small study table had fortunately been removed in whatever purge of the library had taken place sometime prior to his day. He shuddered to think what the Weasley twins might have done with a few of the wilder variations.  
  
He was conducting the distasteful research seated at a lonely table in a corner behind shelves of the oldest and least used books. This was because, he told himself, he did not want to be disturbed by the babbling of the many students who seemed to come to the library to gossip with their friends rather than to study. He was absolutely NOT hiding, as that wretch Delaia had intimated that morning. However, it was with considerable pleasure that he contemplated an Apollo-free afternoon, especially after the week he'd had.  
  
Zosimus had apparently decided to adopt him as some sort of pet project, now that they were such good friends; so far, this had primarily manifested itself through an interest in his wardrobe, a fact which, given some of the attire in Zosimus' own closet, Severus viewed as highly ironic. He had been inundated with elaborate boxes claiming in ornate gilt letters to have originated from "Vêtements de Magicien Elégants" and "Habits Magiques Distingués," wherever those dubious establishments might be. The contents of the packages were even worse than the wrappings, including some of the most hideous robes Severus had ever seen. Zosimus had apparently been harbouring a secret desire to see him in colour, as was evidenced by his gift of a crimson velvet garment festooned around the neck and cuffs with-- and this Severus still had difficulty believing--ostrich feathers. Snape had the sneaking suspicion that he was being laughed at, but Zosimus' normal manner was so outrageous that it was hard to tell.  
  
The difficulty in hiding from the school's favourite was that Zosimus could call on any number of stooges to keep tabs on his location. It was not with any surprise, therefore, that Snape looked up to find that his potion's partner had ferreted him out and come to chat. "Really, Hiro," Zosimus chided, looking with disapproval at the volume entitled Love Libations for Likely Lads that Snape was currently perusing. "This really is too bad of you, especially when I need your help on more important things." He drew up a chair without bothering to ask permission and leaned on the table, chin in hand, regarding Severus soulfully. "I told you the truth, you know. You've already taken the antidote."  
  
Severus did not bother to reply, just continued to read the ingredients for something called the Soulmate Solution, which promised everlasting bliss with the object of your affections--as long as the potion was renewed every 28 days.  
  
Zosimus sighed, and fidgeted. "You can sulk all you want, but you know I'm right. We need to direct our energies to our OTHER research."  
  
Severus did not look up from his book, which despite the author's annoying habit of giving every potion an alliterative name, was illustrated in some of the most intriguing ways. However, he did deign to point out that, as Zosimus was well aware, there was little they could do without a certain ingredient.  
  
"But that's just it," Apollo lowered his voice and leaned excitedly across the table. "A connection of father's may have found us a source, but after what happened last time, I thought it wise to take a few additional precautions before tonight--but you know much more about that sort of thing than I do, of course. So, we need to discuss it."  
  
"Before tonight?" Severus looked in disbelief at the attractively flushed face across from him. "Are you quite mad?" How this man had ever attained the reputation of genius . . . "Are you in any way unaware of JUST how close we came to COMPLETE disaster last time? The Ministry is doubtless watching you like a hawk; all they need to put you away for the next century is to catch you in the act. So, of course, when you get an offer of the VERY thing we are looking for, exactly one week after the last set up, you don't even CONSIDER that this may be a trap?"  
  
Zosimus blinked at him and reached out to cover Snape's hand with his own. "I know how much you worry about me, Hiro, and don't think it isn't appreciated, but . . . "  
  
"THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH LOVING YOU!" Severus came to his senses to find himself, to his utter horror, the cynosure of all eyes in the suddenly deathly quiet library.  
  
There was always suicide, he supposed.  
  
"Of course it doesn't . . .," Apollo murmured soothingly, looking at him with--oh dear God, was that PITY? I WILL kill him, Severus swore to himself, as he was led, unprotestingly, out of the library and down the hall. He managed to get a grip on himself as they neared the entrance to the dungeons. Slamming a startled looking Apollo against the wall, he assumed his most threatening stance, using his height to loom menacingly over the shorter man. "You are not going to any rendezvous tonight. You are going to stay here, if necessary chained to a wall, do you understand me?"  
  
"Hiro . . . "  
  
DO YOU?!"  
  
"Alright, Hiro, whatever you say." Apollo looked up at him, tears shimmering in his eyes, and Snape realised that the man's head might have collided with the stone a bit harder than he had planned. "Apollo . . . look, I'm sorry, but you don't understand." He sighed, wondering how you explained the type of people they were dealing with to someone who, despite having thrived in Slytherin for over five years, gave the impression of being an almost complete innocent. "Just trust me on this. We'll find the necessary ingredients, but not this way."  
  
"Fine." The younger man had regained his composure somewhat, but was carefully not looking at Snape.  
  
Severus had the distinct impression that actually locking him away for the evening might not be a bad idea. "You ARE going to listen to me on this."  
  
Zosimus shrugged, smoothing a wrinkle out of his claret-coloured robes. "The potions are for you, Hiro--I am already IN my time. We can take this as slowly as you like." He looked up at Severus with a wry expression. "Despite the fact that you are painfully undiscerning and quite frankly the most embittered, disagreeable and irritating person I have ever met, I am," he said with a worrying gleam, "in no particular hurry to get rid of you. We'll do it your way . . . for now."  
  
Snape stood with a scowl on his face, watching as the younger man ducked under his restraining arm and sashayed insolently down the steps toward the Slytherin area of the castle. Zosimus had sounded convincing, but then, there was no such thing as a bad liar in his house. "Apollo," Severus called after him before he reached the common room, "one thing. You wouldn't happen to have seen Valentin recently, would you? There's a little . . . something . . . I need to ask him about."  
  
"Valentin?," Apollo paused at the common room entrance, "oh, yes," he said casually, "he's probably still torturing Morgan--said something about planning on spending the afternoon on it."  
  
Severus assumed Zosimus was referring to the annoying young woman's ability to be a source of irritation to whomever she graced with her presence. However, as he entered the antechamber to the sub-basement where Apollo thought she might be a few moments later, he found that he had been told the literal truth. "Nice technique," Snape commented, watching as the defenceless caretaker floated about the ceiling on what was obviously a very strong hover charm. Occasionally, Delaia would swish her wand, releasing the charm and allowing the man to plummet eight or ten feet, until she caught him and sent him hurling back up, sometimes to the point of slamming him into the granite slab above.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Any, er, particular reason for this little exercise?"  
  
"Albus seems to feel I'm not subtle enough."  
  
Snape arched a brow at her; "subtle" was not a word he'd have used to describe her afternoon's diversion.  
  
She noticed his expression and shrugged. "Well, it was either this or kick him all the way to Hogsmeade, and, on the whole, I thought this was more refined."  
  
"And you felt he needed this lesson for . . . "  
  
Delaia waved her wand and the man screamed as the cushion of air beneath him gave way and the dungeon floor, some twenty feet below, rushed upwards at deadly speed. This time, she waited until he was a scant three feet from his doom, before flicking him aloft once more.  
  
"One of our second year students annoyed Professor Bane and he gave him a detention. But he didn't have the time, or probably the interest, to oversee it himself, so he assigned the poor child to that thing up there."  
  
Morgan was, Severus noted with satisfaction, now reduced to whimpering as Delaia sent him zooming around the room in large parabolas--just for variation, he assumed.  
  
"And Morgan did not fulfil his duties?"  
  
"Only if those duties involve terrorising a twelve year old child into an incoherent puddle. He made him clean all the gargoyles, on the highest tower, in the rain. Do you know how slick the upper stories get when it rains? And how close to the edge someone has to be in order to scrub the accumulated filth off those ugly things?"  
  
"Fairly close, I would assume."  
  
"Yes, as in teetering on the edge. The boy," Delaia noted savagely, sending Morgan to dangle over the entrance to a deep well in the far corner of the room, "has vertigo. He is absolutely petrified of heights. Luckily," she flipped the caretaker over with an abrupt movement of her wand, so that he was positioned upside down over the lengthy drop, "I found out that the reason the gargoyles look like mouldy green lumps most of the time is that Morgan here hates heights, too."  
  
"Isn't that a coincidence," Severus murmured. Maybe there was hope for the girl, after all. "Listen, Valentin, I need you to do me a favour." He explained the situation quickly, and obtained her ready acquiescence.  
  
"Of course, I'll be happy to help, Sev," she assured him absently.  
  
"Well, I'll just leave you to it then. Shall I shut the door?" No telling how much longer she intended to keep this up.  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
Severus left the dungeon, feeling considerably lighter than he had when he entered it, carefully pulling the heavy door shut behind him. He thought, as he walked up the corridor, that he might have heard the faint sound of quickly diminishing screams, rather as if someone was pelting down a well. Of course, he could have been imagining it. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten  
  
  
  
Delaia fingered her wand and shifted uncomfortably next to Snape. She just wished something would go ahead and happen already. Even an ambush would be better than this interminable, stultifying wait in the frigid cold. What had happened to last week's good weather, anyway? She shifted again, trying to get some blood flowing into her feet, which felt like they were both on the verge of falling asleep, and glared at her partner. Not that he could see it, of course. Damned man, she should have known better than to agree to do HIM a favour. Of course, she reflected, as they both watched the dark-cloaked figure up the street pause, probably startled by some small noise, this really wasn't for him.  
  
"Do you think you could find a position and stay with it?," the irritation at her side hissed into her ear.  
  
"My foot's asleep."  
  
"Oh for Merlin's sake . . . "  
  
"Well, we've been here for ages! We'll miss the Triwizard selection at this rate, and I really wanted to be there. I don't know why you couldn't just have asked him when and where the damned rendezvous was supposed to be." They had arrived at the cobblestone covered heart of what Delaia had been surprised to identify, eventually, as Paris almost two hours before. Having grown up just outside the city, she had thought she was fairly familiar with it, but there was no doubt that it had changed a bit in the last 150 years.  
  
The tangled maze of streets through which they had, with extreme difficulty, tracked Apollo bore no resemblance at all to the picturesque avenues of Delaia's memory. She recalled her history instructor at Beauxbatons mentioning something about the difficulties posed to the magical community by the Emperor Napoleon III's decision, in the 1860s or 70s, to beautify Paris. He had torn down the narrow, evil-smelling, and almost airless warren of medieval streets at the city's core and replaced them with wide, tree lined boulevards that shortly became models of city planning all over the world. The rapidity and thoroughness of the move had caused the Parisian magical community some problems, however, forcing the Ministry to work almost around the clock to shore up the centuries-old wards that guarded the Avenue Inclinée--the French version of Diagon Alley. Delaia wished they were there now, or even in the less salubrious Rue de Menaçante, Paris' version of Knockturn Alley. Instead, they had spent the evening dodging along the numerous cesspools that still passed for streets in this era's muggle Paris, and not enjoying the experience. At least Delaia hadn't; it was difficult to tell what Snape was feeling as the lack of street lighting insured that she'd spent the night following after little more than his silent shadow.  
  
"The man IS a genius, however naïve of one," Snape reminded her, his hawkish profile lit only by the very dim wand light they shielded from Zosimus by their bodies. "He would certainly have known what I intended had I been foolish enough to ask for particulars, and taken extra precautions to insure we could not follow him."  
  
"He took enough as it was," Delaia muttered. It had not taken her very long to realise that the whole point of their little perambulations that evening had been Zosimus' attempt to insure that no one could trace him to the meeting place. Despite Snape's tracking ability, which was surprisingly good, he had almost succeeded in losing them no less than four times, the last with a sudden apparition from one alley to its brother a street over, followed by an almost immediate switch back again. The only reason it hadn't worked was the poor lighting available, which meant that he had returned just as they were realising he'd left. Your reflexes are too good, uncle, Delaia had thought, grinning with anticipation over the weeks of teasing this night's events would provide. Assuming they all survived, of course.  
  
Delaia watched Zosimus' unusually dark-garbed figure as it paced the alley for what had to be the fiftieth time. Apparently he was early or his contacts were late; either way, she didn't like it. For a change, Snape's instincts had been spot on--she was VERY glad they had followed Apollo, despite the fact that she really was getting quite uncomfortable. She fidgeted behind the wooden casks piled at the alley's entrance that provided them with some cover. The blackness of the night coupled with a basic do-not-notice charm insured that it was very unlikely they would be seen by anyone, even if that person was practically on top of them. The charm also meant, however, that they had to stay in the small area over which it had been cast, a fact that was starting to give Delaia serious leg cramps.  
  
She wondered, not for the first time, if Snape had figured it out. She had been informed of his and Apollo's previous attempt to obtain illicit potion supplies, but Delaia didn't think for a minute that this was another Ministry raid. The British and French authorities could work together when they had to, of course, but it was never an easy relationship, and it made no sense for the British magical administration to arrange a raid on French soil when there were so many easier alternatives. So, that left the problem of just who Zosimus was meeting. Delaia fervently hoped it was a reliable--if such a word could be used to describe a smuggling ring--group that only wanted money in exchange for dangerous supplies. If it was some opportunist types who had heard through the underground grapevine of Zosimus' extreme interest in a certain hard-to-find ingredient, they might have decided to set him up, take the money and give nothing in return. And if that was true, they also might decide that they preferred not to leave a victim around who could identify them. Yes, despite the fact that she was fast beginning to believe that she would never walk again, Delaia was very glad Snape had asked her to come along.  
  
Snape suddenly tensed at her side, and silently extinguished his wand. She had not seen anything, and of course could not do so now even with the aid of a sight charm, but apparently Severus had. "Get ready," he muttered unnecessarily, and Delaia renewed her grip on her wand, hoping that she would be capable of quick movement if it was needed.  
  
The transaction was difficult to follow, but Delaia thought she saw several figures huddled around Zosimus in conversation. She couldn't make out anything they were saying and they were far too close to allow her to cast an amplification charm without risking notice. She saw something pass between them, possibly the payment, and then heard Zosimus give a strangled cry. That was all she heard because Snape immediately let off a volley of curses at the shadowy figures surrounding Apollo, while vaulting at the same time over the barrels and running towards them. Delaia might have appreciated the performance, except for the fact that, in his enthusiasm, he had knocked her to the ground and stepped on her.  
  
Getting her breath back, she stumbled out from behind the casks and hurried over to where Severus had paused beside an obviously injured Apollo. Snape looked at her, "Can you . . . "  
  
Delaia nodded, "I can't run anyway. Go get the bastards. I'll take care of him." Snape nodded once and ran after the figures, two of whom were dragging a third, who had probably been hit by one of Snape's curses, out the entrance to the alley. Delaia briefly wondered why they didn't just disapparate, but did not really care. Zosimus was her only concern at the moment.  
  
"How badly are you injured?," she lit her wand at the same time she asked the question, and had it answered for her. Apollo was bleeding profusely from, amazingly enough, a knife wound. "What the hell . . . "  
  
"Delaia . . . "  
  
"Don't worry," she told him, muttering a basic healing charm that at least stopped the bleeding, although she doubted that it did much about the pain. Wrapping her arms around him securely, she apparated both of them to the borders of Hogwarts, then conjured a stretcher and took Apollo straight to the infirmary. She was about to wake up McClendon, who as nurse had his rooms just down the hall, when she felt a hand on her arm. Apollo was sitting up, looking at her pleadingly. "Don't . . . I'll be all right."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, we have to . . . "  
  
He shook his head, cutting her off. "I'm fine, Delaia, really. The bleeding's stopped and I have a few things in my room that will fix the rest."  
  
"But, Apollo, the nurse really should take a look at you. There might be more injuries than you know . . . "  
  
"No, I'm fine. Although I could use some help getting back to my rooms." He tried to stand, but became dizzy and sat down hard on the nearest bunk. "Then again, maybe you could go get something for me, and bring it here?"  
  
"I'm getting the nurse."  
  
"NO!" Zosimus looked agitated. "Forget the man, he's an idiot anyway. Have you forgotten who my grandmother was? I learned to walk toddling around the cauldron of one of the last ancient healers in France. Don't tell me I don't know how to evaluate injuries." H laid back against the pillows, looking pale but determined. "I probably know twice as much about medicine than that old fool of a nurse, and I tell you I'm fine. I've just lost some blood, but I have something in my rooms that will take care of that." He handed Delaia a small golden key that he took off a chain around his neck. "This goes to the chest on the top shelf of my wardrobe. Bring me the dark blue glass vial and also the pale yellow one."  
  
Delaia listened with no pleasure as he told her how to get around the extensive wards protecting his rooms. She ought to leave the infirmary and go straight to McClendon, but if she did, Zosimus would probably never forgive her. Plus, she had gotten a better look at his wound when he lay down, and it did not look as bad as she'd first thought. Either it had not been that deep, or she had remembered her healing spells better than she'd thought. In any case, Sev would doubtless be back soon--at least she hoped so--and together they should be able to convince her stubborn relative to let the nurse check him over.  
  
Delaia followed instructions, or at least she tried, but it took a long time to get through the last ward. She probably had the incantation slightly off, but then, it had been a hard night. Returning to the infirmary with vials in hand, Delaia saw no sign of her uncle. For a moment she thought that Sev had perhaps returned, but if that was true they should still be there, or else have gone to Zosimus' rooms if his condition had improved.  
  
She was trying to imagine where Zosimus could be, when she saw a strange sight. A small blue beaker, such as those used to hold water for patients' use, floated into her view from around the corner. It bobbed in the air a few times, then floated back into the next ward. After a moment, Delaia followed it. Rounding the corner into the secondary ward, she didn't at first see anything, until she caught sight of the beaker, slowly passing behind a screen.  
  
"Honestly, Apollo, I really don't understand what you think you're . . ." Delaia broke off as she caught sight of the figure who reached out to reclaim the beaker. They stared at each other for perhaps two full minutes. Delaia knew that her mouth was hanging open and that she probably looked like an absolute idiot, but at that moment she really didn't care.  
  
Oh. My. God.  
  
Just then, before she could even fully process what was before her eyes, sounds from the next room warned her that someone had, indeed, roused McClendon who, thankfully, was loudly complaining about it. The figure opposite her looked as horrified as Delaia felt. "Please . . . "  
  
Delaia silently handed over the two vials, calmly pulled the screen fully closed behind her, and stepped into the next room. Severus, McClendon and, for some reason, Albus, were just entering the room.  
  
Delaia wasn't sure she could speak, but somehow managed to give a strangled explanation. "You just missed . . . him. Left already. Probably wanted a lie down in his own room. You should check there." Her response was practically incoherent, but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. It was apparently good enough for Snape, who turned and rushed out of the room, but Albus regarded her thoughtfully.  
  
"Is everything all right, Valentin?" She saw him glance briefly at the ward beyond her, which hopefully appeared empty. Even if he does notice anything, she assured herself, he certainly won't understand it. Then again, this WAS Albus, and she preferred not to take chances.  
  
"Oh, yes, everything's fine." Delaia smiled as convincingly as she could, hoping it looked less like a grimace than it felt, and shifted slightly to better block Albus' view into the next room.  
  
"Then you should come along or we'll miss the selection, and that would be a shame." Delaia thought she saw something odd in his eyes for an instant, but it was gone too quickly to tell. She reluctantly let herself be led away, unable to come up with an excuse for hanging around a supposedly empty ward.  
  
The great hall was blazing with a thousand floating candles and the house banners, usually reserved for the welcoming and leaving feasts, had been magically suspended in the air above the tables. Delaia found her seat under the golden Gryffindor lion a little more cramped than usual, as the first fifth or so of the table had been cordoned off, with only a small napkin sitting in the centre. The other tables had a similar arrangement, except for Slytherin, where a rough-looking wooden chalice had been placed on the napkin. Delaia had missed the Triwizard tournament held at Hogwarts the previous year, as she had already graduated from Beauxbatons, so she found herself looking forward to seeing how the selection process worked. Albus slipped into place beside her as the meeting was called to order.  
  
Listening to the long-winded speeches about the history of the tournament, the past champions from Hogwarts, and the need for everyone to rally behind their house's choice once it was made, Delaia wondered, not for the first time, why they had had to go along with tradition and hold the selection at midnight. Not that she wouldn't happy to be there when Albus was chosen for Gryffindor, but it had been a very long day and her eyelids were beginning to droop. Glancing over at Slytherin, she noticed that, of course, Zosimus was absent, as was Severus. She hoped he wasn't planning on camping out all night in Apollo's rooms, as that might prove a bit . . . awkward, under the circumstances. Delaia saw the agitation-level mount at Slytherin as time passed and still their favoured son did not put in an appearance. Oh, if they only knew, Delaia thought, and stifled a slightly hysterical giggle. Albus shot her a glance, but said nothing, although she had noticed him watching Slytherin, too.  
  
Finally, the moment came and everyone wishing to try for the honour of representing their house at Durmstrang was instructed to write their name on a slip of parchment; when the goblet reached their table, they were to come forward to place their name in it for consideration. The selection started with Slytherin, and, in Zosimus' absence, the bright flame that erupted from the cup carried aloft a paper bearing the name of the other prefect, a lanky, olive-skinned seventh year. Ravenclaw and then Hufflepuff followed, with neither of their champions impressing Delaia as being any match for Albus. The decision on who would ultimately represent Hogwarts in the final tournament had, she thought smugly, already been decided. Then it was Gryffindor's turn.  
  
All of the upper classmen, plus a few daring junior students, rushed forward with much jostling to place their names in the cup. Albus sat where he was. At first, Delaia thought he was merely waiting for the crush to dissipate, but, as the line at the front of the table grew shorter, he still remained in place. "Albus," she nudged him lightly, "it's your turn." Indeed, he had started to get puzzled glances from other Gryffindors as he continued to keep his seat. When he still didn't move, Delaia looked up in surprise to see his eyes fixed, not on the cup, but on her, while a small smile hovered about his lips. "Albus? You need to go now." He continued to sit and smile at her. McGonagall cleared his throat and looked pointedly down the table at them, but Albus ignored him. Delaia held his glistening blue gaze with her own and suddenly had a very strange thought.  
  
McGonagall announced loudly that the Gryffindor selection would soon be closing, but Delaia barely heard him. She was starting to put things together. "You aren't going to enter," she whispered. Albus' expression didn't change, except that his smile may have grown a fraction wider. "So, in a minute . . . the cup is going to select the Gryffindor champion . . . who, without you as competition, will almost certainly be . . ., " she wanted to glance across the table, to where she was sure Geoffrey was watching them, but couldn't force her eyes to move. "And that means Geoffrey will go to Durmstrang . . . for the rest of the year . . . "  
  
Memory of Albus's words echoed in her mind, asking if she wanted to "hazard something on my inability to remove the threat of that moron without threatening him, hexing him, getting him expelled, or otherwise attacking him."  
  
Oh my God.  
  
Albus said nothing audible as the cup duly coughed out Geoffrey's name a few moments later, but his eyes were laughing at her, and his lips formed quite clearly the words, "I win." 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven  
  
  
  
Snape supposed that it shouldn't have surprised him that Apollo was not where he was supposed to be; the man had probably never done a predictable thing in his entire life. After waiting around his rooms for more than half an hour, just in case he had decided to leave his sickbed to go raid the kitchen or something equally ridiculous, Severus decided to check the main hall. The only other place that it made any sense for Apollo to be was at the selection, so naturally he wasn't there either. Severus stood in the doorway, watching as that idiot Travers was made the Slytherin champion. Zosimus' place at the table was empty.  
  
Snape was crossing the main hall, considering the idea of revisiting the infirmary on the off chance the man had decided to go back there, when he saw a most unusual sight coming in the front door. At first Severus thought, as incredible as it would be, that an elf was paying a visit to Hogwarts. But, although he was dressed correctly--in an elvin tunic of moss green and a silver cloak, Severus had never before seen an elf taller than he was. As soon as the man pulled down the hood of his cape, Snape received a double shock. He wasn't sure, but he had a strong suspicion that he knew who the stranger might be.  
  
"Aberforth?" The man turned in surprise as Snape made his way across the hall towards him. He didn't need the bemused look on the stranger's face to know he had guessed right. He was taller than Albus, and his face was longer with less perfect features, but the eyes were the same, as was the colouring. Snape had never met the headmaster's brother, but had the feeling he was about to rectify that.  
  
"Have we met?"  
  
"No, but I am acquainted with your brother. The family resemblance is considerable."  
  
Aberforth smiled. "Yes, I suppose it is. Could you tell me where I can find Albus? It is rather urgent that I speak with him."  
  
"Of course," Snape indicated the way to the great hall, but stopped Aberforth from entering. "They are selecting the Hogwart's champions for the Triwizard Tournament this year; your brother will almost certainly be chosen from Gryffindor. If you wouldn't mind waiting?"  
  
Aberforth looked somewhat confused, but did not argue. The two men stood to the side of the main door, watching as the cup was presented to Hufflepuff and, finally, to Gryffindor. Snape narrowed his eyes at the sight of Albus, resolutely remaining in his chair as almost everyone else in his house went forward. "Why isn't he participating?," he wondered aloud. Aberforth didn't reply, but watched the scene with interest. Snape could hardly believe it when, because Albus steadfastly refused to budge from his seat, the Gryffindor selection went to that prat Geoffrey instead. Snape wondered if anything at all was likely to make sense this evening.  
  
The selection process having finished, the champions were presented to the school. How pathetic, Snape thought in disgust, without a doubt Durmstrang would murder them. Before the students were released and chaos ensued, Snape pulled Aberforth away and steered him to the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. This took some time as the man seemed fascinated by the contents of the castle, stopping to examine mobile suits of armour and several paintings along the way. They finally arrived along with the first few Gryffindors returning from the selection, who Snape persuaded to admit Aberforth--not a difficult task considering the resemblance to his brother. That task dealt with, he went back to Apollo hunting. The man had to be somewhere, and Snape intended to find him and get some answers.  
  
* * *  
  
Delaia stared in great surprise at the man seated in a chair in front of the Gryffindor fireplace. She and Albus had just come back from the hall, and neither had been paying a great deal of attention to their surroundings. Delaia had been concentrating on Albus' remark near the end of the Triwizard meeting. Seeing her obviously flustered state, he had smiled and commented that she shouldn't worry, "Relax, I'm not planning on ravishing you . . . at the dining table." Before she had been able to respond suitably, the meeting had been dismissed and they were caught up in the mass exodus.  
  
Now, as they made their way across the common room, the man rose from his chair and stepped forward to intercept them. He had to be a relative of Albus'; the resemblance was too close for anything else.  
  
"Aberforth?" Albus seemed as surprised as she.  
  
"Albus, good to see you. I was wondering if I might have a word?" He looked pointedly at Delaia, who didn't budge.  
  
"Valentin de Plannis . . . my, uh, slave for this year."  
  
Aberforth looked somewhat shocked, Delaia noted. "Didn't think you went in for that sort of thing. What was it you called it . . . a 'barbaric ritual with overtones of sadism?'  
  
"Er, well, there were . . . extenuating circumstances in this case."  
  
Aberforth waived the discussion away with a gesture. "Yes, well, I'm sure I'll want to hear all about it, but later, all right? I'm fagged out at the moment. Right now, I need a bath, a meal, a bed and a long conversation with you, not necessarily in that order." He picked up the huge pack that sat at his feet. "Where's our room then?"  
  
He seemed not to notice that the two Gryffindors were staring at him with almost identical stupefied expressions.  
  
"Uh, this way." Albus, carefully not looking at Delaia, led his brother up the stairs to his rooms. She trailed along afterwards, considerably confused. She had not even known Albus HAD a brother; he had certainly never mentioned him that she could recall. But of course, she thought, he would HAVE to show up this particular evening, wouldn't he?  
  
She arrived at their room to find Aberforth looking around him with amusement, "I see you haven't learned any housekeeping skills, Albus. You must drive the poor house elves absolutely mad." He nudged the basket that contained Albus' pet ashwinder with a cautious toe. "Still have that old thing?" he grimaced, "well, I think I'll sleep over here then, if that's all right." He swung his pack onto Delaia's bed, then collapsed onto the lid of her trunk--practically the only seating in the room--with an audible sigh. "God I'm glad to be here--hellish journey, I can tell you. But, first things first. Where is it, Albus?"  
  
"Where is what?" Delaia noticed with dawning suspicion that Albus did not look as confused as . . . was that embarrassed? It was hard to accurately read his expression, but there was no doubt that he DID know what Aberforth was talking about, a fact his brother also observed.  
  
"The wand, old boy, the wand." Aberforth looked at him with exasperation, "You caused quite a stir with that owl you sent me. I don't think Ev'allisor has recovered yet. Everyone thought--hoped anyway--that the damned thing was lost. You can't imagine the chaos that ensued when I, innocent that I am, handed my teacher a parchment with the runes of Altrin perfectly inscribed on it. You almost gave him a heart attack," he noted accusingly.  
  
"The runes of what?" Now Albus looked confused. Delaia, on the other hand, tired as she was, thought the conversation was beginning to make sense. At least she knew what had brought Aberforth. She shot Albus an accusing glare over his brother's shoulder.  
  
"Don't play with me, Albus," Aberforth told him shortly. "I was pulled off a very important training assignment, which I'll have to repeat now, thanks to you, to come and get your explanation. You're lucky they had me to send," he noted grimly, "I don't think you'd have enjoyed having a delegation of several elders and eight or ten bowmen show up at the front door of Hogwarts and demand to speak with you. Might have been a bit difficult to explain."  
  
"A bit," Albus agreed weakly.  
  
"Then understand that the leniency you've been shown is unusual and be grateful. And you can best show your gratitude by handing it over now."  
  
"I don't have it." Which, Delaia thought, was technically true. She felt the wand up her sleeve tingle slightly, giving off its usual warmth. Apollo, she wondered, just what did you give me?  
  
Aberforth regarded his brother sardonically. "Then perhaps you know where it is?"  
  
"I never said I had it, nor that I had seen it," Albus reminded him. He looked pale, Delaia thought, and although she couldn't tell, it was probable that he was desperately trying to come up with a plausible explanation. She decided to take pity on him and provide a distraction. Nudging Sosi's basket, she saw the ashwinder slither out looking irritated; it paused practically not at all before zeroing in on the stranger in the room. Since Albus had not informed Sosi that his brother was a friend, she was ready to assume they had a dangerous intruder who needed to be dealt with. "Damn!," Aberforth leaped backward, almost falling in his attempt to get away from it. "Why you insist on keeping that wretched creature, and in your bedroom of all places, is really beyond me, Albus!"  
  
Delaia, hoping it looked like she was attempting to help, egged Sosi on, smiling when it sank little fangs into Aberforth's leg. "The thing's a menace, Albus!"  
  
"Maybe you should go get a bath and that will give me time to get her put away," Delaia offered helpfully.  
  
Mercifully, Aberforth seemed to feel this was a good idea. "Think you can get me into the prefect's washroom, Albus? I do hate those damn communal things."  
  
Albus and Delaia traded significant looks across the room as he led his brother off. They managed a brief conversation when he returned a few minutes later, but it certainly had no romantic overtones.  
  
"You owled him about my wand?"  
  
"It was shortly after you arrived. I recognised the runes as elvish when I examined it in the garden. Aberforth is studying with the elves, so I sent him a copy of them, asking what he could tell me. I didn't know you then," he added, a little defensively.  
  
"And you obtained this copy by?"  
  
"I made a rubbing of your wand one night after you were asleep. Thankfully, I didn't send him THAT, or we would have a problem denying it had ever been here. Speaking of which," Albus went to the wardrobe and pulled out his mahogany wand. "I know it won't work as well for you as your own, but you can't be seen with that. Aberforth will almost certainly confiscate it if he finds it."  
  
"He'll hear about it anyway, if he asks around. You weren't the only one to notice it's a little unusual. Professor Bane was commenting on it in transfiguration just the other day. Besides," Delaia noted, reluctantly as she was very fond of her wand, "if it is dangerous, maybe we should have him look at it."  
  
"I would rather not, at least not right away. Delaia, you did have it with you that night, when you and Severus had your accident, didn't you?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Then I think we should talk to Severus and Apollo about this before saying anything whatever to Aberforth."  
  
"You think it had something to do with . . . everything?"  
  
"I don't know. Obviously, as you use it every day and do not time shift, the wand cannot alone be responsible. But Apollo has managed to isolate seven possible catalysts for what happened to you. Based on what Aberforth said, I think we may have just found an eighth."  
  
Delaia pocketed Albus' spare wand as Aberforth re-entered the room. Seeing that she had yet to corner Sosi, the two brothers went off to the kitchens, to give Aberforth a chance to eat as well as to chat with the house elves. They were only a very distant cousin to the great elvish community, but did speak a discernible dialect. They left Delaia behind at her request.  
  
"I'll secure Sosi while you're gone. She just doesn't like strangers," she commented, smiling as brightly as possible at Aberforth, while wishing him an extended sojourn in the lowest pit of hell. As the door closed behind them, she sat down on Albus' four-poster, containing with difficulty a serious desire to throw something. Sosi peered up at her and hissed sympathetically. Delaia scratched the ashwinder under her chin and sighed. She sincerely hated Aberforth Dumbledore. The feeling was not lessened when she had to give up her bed to the man when he returned, nor when she was forced to stay awake, waiting until he dropped off to sleep so that she and Albus could slip from the room unobserved. This day was NEVER going to end, but Albus was right. They needed to talk to their co-conspirators. She just hoped Apollo had . . . arranged things . . . so that no one noticed anything unusual. As if they didn't have enough problems at the moment.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
"So, you're saying it was the wand all the time?" Apollo studied it closely. They were seated in his rooms, where Snape had finally found him only seconds before the two Gryffindors arrived. Their news had driven the idea of interrogating Apollo about his evening's activities temporarily from Severus' mind.  
  
"Aberforth told me that it acts as a sort of port key across time. But it was lost in a war hundreds of years ago, and even at that point, no one remembered how to activate it. After efforts to recover it failed, it was assumed it had been destroyed."  
  
"And apparently one of my potions serves as the catalyst to trigger its abilities."  
  
"Yes, but we can't know for certain until we can test the wand's interaction with them."  
  
"Well, we can easily brew more of the two potions for which we have the ingredients, and see what happens when they are exposed to it. As for the others, however . . . "  
  
Snape shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn't like what he was about to do, but it was certainly better than having Apollo lurk around every dark alley in Europe until some underworld character finally managed to kill him. "I may know where we can find the necessary ingredient."  
  
All eyes turned to him. He sighed, "Durmstrang."  
  
Apollo looked thoughtful. "Well, they do have a bit of a reputation . . . "  
  
"A well-deserved one. My great-uncle, Mordred Zaglerin, is potion's master there, but it is Aunt Augusta's stores we will have to raid, a task which," he cautioned them, "may prove even more hazardous than our previous activities. Augusta was not a . . . nice . . . individual."  
  
"But she'll have Tizheruk venom?"  
  
"Almost certainly. Along with most other illegal supplies. They are not, however, likely to be merely laying around in a laboratory somewhere. And her wards will quite possibly be lethal."  
  
"We'll have to make sure not to trip them then," Apollo observed wryly.  
  
"There is another small problem," Albus interjected. "No one knows where Durmstrang is. So how do we get there?"  
  
Snape shrugged. That seemed to him a trifling inconvenience compared to the other problems that lay ahead. "The Triwizard champions will be taken there shortly, will they not?"  
  
Albus looked at him as if he were somewhat slow. "Yes, but none of us is included in that group, are we?"  
  
Snape shot him an irritated glance. "Then bloody well do something about it."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"What difference does it make? Anything as long as they are unable to compete and new champions have to be chosen--take your pick: illness, misbehaviour, madness . . . "  
  
Albus glanced at Apollo. "I take it that I am correct in assuming that there will be no difficulty dealing with the Slytherin candidate?"  
  
Apollo looked slightly amused. "I believe something can be arranged."  
  
"Then that leaves Geoffrey."  
  
Delaia gave an evil smile. "I think something can be arranged there, too."  
  
Albus shook his head. "No, it cannot be something that merely keeps him from attending Durmstrang. If he is only injured, he will still be here, and with plenty of time to recover. I will not have him terrorising Gryffindor for a year while we are away."  
  
Snape noticed that Delaia looked shocked for some reason. "You never had any intention of going,!" she accused.  
  
"Of course not. HDelaia, ow could I? Do you have any idea what it would be like here with no one to restrain him?"  
  
"That is McGonagall's job, not yours!"  
  
"McGonagall prefers not to see anything that would cause him difficulties, especially in this case. Geoffrey is from a highly respected and very old family. Disciplining him would be . . . difficult."  
  
"But that is his job!"  
  
"Delaia, we have discussed before that people do not play fair. I don't like this any better than you. Yes, I knew from the start that I could not go to Durmstrang, but I was also quite looking forward to the idea of a year without Geoffrey and all the unwanted responsibility that goes with him! Frankly, having to only concern myself with not getting killed in the course of the tournament would be a holiday!"  
  
"If I may interject?" Apollo asked. "I may be able to deal with your little difficulty." He waved a hand at his wardrobe, and a small enamelled box floated over to him. He extracted a purple tinted vial and tossed it over to Albus. "Drop one of McGonagall's hairs in that, wait a few minutes, then add the whole thing to Geoffrey's evening drink. He should take care of the rest for us."  
  
Before Albus could so much as pick up the gift, Snape pounced on it. "SO," he shot Apollo a triumphant look. "THIS is what you've been using."  
  
"For God's sake, Severus," Apollo sounded testy, "are you still on about that?"  
  
"You are going to deny that this is a love potion?"  
  
"Certainly not. In fact, I quite look forward to seeing Geoffrey chasing old McGonagall round the castle. Which," Apollo said archly, "with a full vial of THAT in him, he most assuredly will." He glanced at Albus, "If that doesn't get him expelled, come back and see me. I have a few other ideas."  
  
"Brew him some more." Snape couldn't believe the man would have the absolute gall to trot this out in front of him, but now that he had, he was not about to miss the opportunity.  
  
For once, Apollo did not seem amused. "I don't mind making more, but I do resent your insistence on wasting time on this ridiculous obsession of yours. For the last time, you are not under the influence of anything."  
  
"We'll see about that."  
  
Apollo looked weary, and gave in. "Fine, if you want to pursue your little hobby, don't let me stop you." He turned to Albus, "See me tomorrow and I'll have some more for you."  
  
Albus nodded and rose, but Delaia stayed where she was. "I need to talk to Apollo about something."  
  
Snape left them sitting together and stalked off to the laboratory. Now that he had the potion, finding an antidote should be easy. And we'll see, Apollo, he thought fiercely, how easy it will be for you to manipulate me then. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve  
  
Delaia's head hurt. She supposed that was normal considering the previous day's activities, and the fact that, despite this being Saturday, Aberforth had awakened her at dawn by some type of very noisy meditation. Albus, whether used to it or just so exhausted he didn't care, slept on.  
  
She shot Aberforth a dirty look, which he couldn't very well see through closed eyes, and went to the kitchens where she had the house elves make her a picnic breakfast. Geoffrey was sure to be insufferable after his selection as Gryffindor champion and she didn't dare risk seeing him in her current mood--else Albus wouldn't have to drug him, there wouldn't be enough left. She found a comfortable spot near the lake and lobbed a few stones in the water until a merman came to the surface and told her to stop. Thereafter she just sat and stared, wondering yet again how she managed to get into these messes.  
  
Top on her list of things to worry about was, of course, the situation with Zosimus. After Albus and Snape had left the previous night, she and Apollo had simply sat and looked at each other for awhile. Delaia had no idea what her companion was feeling; she herself was so tired that she just wanted to get this over with and go to bed. "I haven't said anything."  
  
"It never occurred to me that you would," Zosimus remarked, summoning a bottle from the next room. Delaia declined with a gesture; she needed her wits for this one.  
  
"So . . .," Delaia could not for the life of her think how to start this conversation. Zosimus took pity on her, or perhaps was just equally tired and also wanted sleep.  
  
"It's very simple, really. Squibs can't inherit. My brother is a squib, or as good as. He has a small amount of magical ability, but not nearly enough. If he had ever been examined, well . . . there is the matter of a considerable estate involved, you know. If Appolonius was disqualified due to his disability, then it would all go to the nearest male heir, in this case my cousin Etienne."  
  
"So, you took your brother's place. Is that why you didn't go to Beauxbatons?"  
  
"Of course. I AM good at my role, Delaia--I've been playing it since age eleven, after all, but even I slip up sometimes. It was decided that it would not be a good idea for me to be right under the nose of anyone with a great deal to gain if my little secret was discovered. The family has always attended Beauxbatons; it's tradition. That is why your mother went there, or rather will do so, and why you did."  
  
Delaia nodded, remembering that Beauxbatons was going to be opened for female students in the 1870s, a full two decades before Hogwarts.  
  
"But it had to be Hogwarts for me, as no one would know me here."  
  
"So you have to take this . . . stuff . . . every hour?"  
  
"No. My brother and I are fraternal twins. Polyjuice works much better on siblings or anyone with a similar genetic code to whomever they are impersonating. I have to take it every three hours, though, or . . . well, you saw."  
  
Yes, Delaia thought, she'd seen. Small differences really, but oh so significant ones. Especially in this time period. "But . . . why didn't you ever tell anyone . . . later on, I mean."  
  
Zosimus smiled slightly. "I can hardly answer that for certain, can I? After all, it hasn't happened yet as far as I am concerned. My best guess would be that I simply preferred not to give up the estate to that bastard Etienne--such a little cachon, you have no idea. Plus, from what you've told me, my circumstances are rather reduced in the future anyway. A farmhouse, darling, however nice of one, is a considerable come down from mansions in four countries. I would assume that father's propensity for spending money does not diminish with time . . . in which case, I will probably need the inheritance to pay off his debts."  
  
"I just can't imagine you keeping it up all those years." Delaia had heard something about Barty Crouch's son fooling everyone the previous year at Hogwarts by using polyjuice, but still . . .  
  
Zosimus took a drink, watching the amber liquid swirl around in the glass. "Well, I doubt it was as difficult as all that. From what you've told me, I didn't exactly have regular company, did I? Even you were away at school most of the year."  
  
"So, what do I call you?"  
  
Zosimus shrugged. "I've been called Apollo for so long now, nothing else would feel right. Not to mention the fact that the others might find it odd if you suddenly change my name."  
  
"So you aren't going to tell them?"  
  
"No," something devilish gleamed in Zosimus' eyes. "Not yet. I think, all things considered, that I am owed a little . . . fun . . . first."  
  
Watching the expressions that flitted across her relative's face, Delaia could almost find it in her heart to feel sorry for Severus . . . almost. Getting wearily to her feet, she smiled at the reclining Apollo. The polyjuice would not wear off for another hour or so, but the face Delaia saw would never be the same again.  
  
Zosimus gazed apprehensively up at her. "You are all right with this, Delaia, aren't you? You do understand how . . .limited . . . my life would have been otherwise? When I was offered the chance to live and study and just BE like everyone else, I took it. I'm not going to apologise for that."  
  
Delaia shrugged. "It was a surprise, of course--in fact, I'm still not sure how I kept myself together in the infirmary--but I'm dealing with it now. Actually," she grinned, thinking of Snape, "this should be fun. Besides, I've always wanted an aunt."  
  
That had been all very well last night, of course, but now . . . There was just so much that could go wrong. Of course, she reminded herself, Zosimus had managed to pull it off once, but then, circumstances were quickly changing and everything was becoming vastly more complicated than it had been in that other time stream. For example, the whole issue of her wand-- which brought her to the second thing she had to worry about. Unless Albus was a great deal more glib that she suspected, they were going to have a problem over that. Damn it all, why had he had to send that stupid message anyway? Delaia didn't know much about elves--no one did, after all--but from what she had heard, they were neither stupid nor lacking in persistence. Great, she thought, so they now had the Ministry, some very strange underworld types who for some reason used muggle weapons, and an unknown number of elves all seriously annoyed with them. She suddenly began to giggle, and was still doing so when Albus dropped down beside her on the grass a few minutes later. He tossed a stone in the water and Delaia began to laugh harder. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you, or we'll have to add merpeople to the list."  
  
He regarded her silently for a minute. "Should I slap you?," he finally inquired politely.  
  
Delaia hiccuped to a stop. "If you think it would help," she remarked, half seriously. God knew she couldn't think of anything that would. "Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you'd be busy being grilled by Aberforth."  
  
"It was a short conversation."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"He seemed to resent it when I declined to explain where I had obtained a copy of those runes."  
  
Delaia was surprised. She hadn't expected him to tell the truth, but why not at least attempt a lie before resorting to silence? When she vocalised that question, Albus merely remarked that, as Aberforth was not stupid, a lie would have done little good and he saw no reason to exhaust himself thinking one up. "After all, if I said I saw the runes in a book, he'd have wanted to know which one . . . if I said someone had shown them or the wand to me, he would have asked who. What could I do? Make up a mysterious stranger at the pub?"  
  
"So what happens now?"  
  
"He goes back and makes his report. In fact, he was leaving as I came up here."  
  
"I imagine the elves aren't going to be too happy about this."  
  
"Probably not."  
  
Something suddenly occurred to Delaia. "What was your brother doing studying with them, anyway? Isn't that a trifle unusual?"  
  
"More than a trifle. It's by invitation only and there have been only a few dozen so invited in the last millennium."  
  
"So why him?" Delaia certainly couldn't see anything particularly remarkable about him. Quite the contrary really; Albus had certainly inherited both the looks and the charm in that family.  
  
Albus lay back, his hands beneath his head, and stared up at the clouds. It was a pretty day, Delaia saw. Her thoughts had been so black before that she hadn't noticed. "There was a rumour of elvish blood somewhere in the family tree, but it was so far back that no one was sure if it was true or not. We Dumbledores do tend to be unusually long-lived, but that was hardly proof of anything. It wasn't until Aberforth was four years old that we discovered that the stories must have had some validity."  
  
"What happened?" Delaia had never heard any of this from Albus before; in fact, he had rarely spoken of his family at all, now that she thought about it.  
  
"He was discovered to be able to do wandless magic--elvish magic, to be precise. Of course, since no one here knew much about it, he was considered to be quite a danger. The whole unfortunate incident was seriously over-publicised."  
  
"What incident?"  
  
Albus looked vaguely uncomfortable. "There's really no need to go into all that."  
  
"You may as well tell me, or you can drug Geoffrey all by yourself."  
  
Albus looked amused. "Come to think of it, I can use some help breaking into McGonagall's rooms. We'll need a hair, preferably with follicle, and there's certain to be one in his brush."  
  
"Then pay up."  
  
Albus sighed. "He did something to a goat."  
  
"He did what?"  
  
"Mother had eaten something that made her ill. Nothing serious, really, but it had caused she and father to get into a discussion on antidotes, and they happened in the course of it to mention bezoars. Aberforth asked what they were, and was told that they provide protection against most poisons, and are found in the stomach of goats. Being only four, he became a bit confused. But he meant well," Albus assured her.  
  
Delaia was intrigued. "So, what did he do?"  
  
"As well as we could ever determine, he became convinced that mother would die if she did not get a bezoar. So he decided to get her one. He toddled over to the neighbour's field, and found his goat. Believing, I suppose, that a larger goat would produce more bezoars, he somehow made the thing begin to . . . grow. By the time anyone realised what was going on, it was the size of a small house and Aberforth was trying to force feed it some boulders he had levitated."  
  
Delaia sincerely tried not to laugh, but lost the battle.  
  
"The goat did not, of course, want to ingest the boulders, and began rampaging around the neighbour's fields, trampling everything in sight in an attempt to avoid them." Albus regarded the almost hysterical girl at his side with tolerance. "The Ministry had a bit of difficulty hushing it up, and there were even a few stories in the muggle press about a great goat-like monster terrorising villagers . . . all nonsense of course. The most it did was to eat a few haystacks and squash a barn. In any case, we received shortly thereafter an invitation from the elvish council for Aberforth to study with them when he became old enough, and he left us when he was eight. I don't see him much now, to tell the truth."  
  
"No, I don't imagine so," Delaia managed to gasp out.  
  
Albus stood up and held out his hand. "Well, shall we go and do a spot of breaking and entering?," asked the perfect prefect. As they walked back to the castle, Delaia decided, much to her satisfaction, that she was definitely having a bad influence on him. 


	13. 

Author's Note:  
  
Well, we've reached the end of book 1. Book 2, as I'm sure you'll realise, takes place at Durmstrang for the Triwizard Tournament. I'm taking a few weeks off before I start to write that one, as I am moving soon and won't have access to a computer. I wanted to take a moment to sincerely thank my reviewers--you've been great and given me much needed encouragement. It's nice for me to think that my little hobby amuses you--even a bit. Thanks and I'll see you again later. For anyone who hasn't yet reviewed or anyone with any constructive criticism to offer, please let me know.  
  
One thing I wanted your opinion on--I was thinking of making the next section from the point of view of Albus and Apollo, just for variation. Any thoughts on that, for or against? All comments are appreciated. 


End file.
